


The Beverly Hills Affair

by Redd2



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-12
Updated: 2020-12-11
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:40:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 29,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27520036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Redd2/pseuds/Redd2
Summary: To Whom It May Concern:In my travels in and around the world of espionage, it is unusual that I come across that rare being – the consummate spy.  But I have been fortunate to have done so in the personage known as Ilya Nicklvitch Kuryakin (of course I use the Russian vernacular).Read on ...
Comments: 16
Kudos: 19





	1. Chapter 1

_To Whom It May Concern:  
In my travels in and around the world of espionage, it is unusual that I come across that rare being – the consummate spy. But I have been fortunate to have done so in the personage known as Ilya Nicklvitch Kuryakin (of course I use the Russian vernacular).  
_

_I came to be acquainted with the young man in my early years in the business and we have since crossed swords, as it were, when our perspective circle of interests overlapped in various corners of the world. I will not say which side of justice I am on, such trite ideals anyway, however, suffice it to say Mr. Kuryakin and I have an understanding and still maintain, I would like to think, a friendly respect.  
_

_Often in our profession, names are as false as the disguises we choose to present in the moment and they are rarely accurate. Mr. Kuryakin is one of the few who chooses to use what I must consider his real name (as what nefarious mind could come up with such) and I will endeavor to use the ‘Americanized’ version in these documents. Mine, alas, must remain circumspect to protect myself and any future covert endeavors. I ask that you respect my wishes and that this correspondence remains our little secret.  
_

_Mr. K. and I had lunch recently on the banks of the Seine at the Chantecler, a favorite of mine, near the opera. It was a glorious day. I will not bore you with the details of our repast but I must tell you that his appetite has not been exaggerated and is precisely what you have read in other accounts.  
_

_  
Our discussion centered on acquaintances and business in general. In our world information is everything. He commented to me, now that the Soviet Union has fallen, that the enemy may be much closer to home and much more dangerous than any we’ve previously encountered. To that end, I informed him that I had discovered a few written accounts of his exploits and of my intent to publish them as fictional storylines on the Internet. He smiled in his own enigmatic way which I took as, if not approval, but that I would not be dismembered if I went forward. How I came upon said manuscripts I would not endeavor to even explain to the gentleman in black if he asked, which he did not. That I had found a publisher with sufficient courage to print them was a surprise to him and I. As I say, I spoke of the documents and suggested that he might wish to recount several of his lesser known escapades and publish them as well, as there seems to be some small interest on this ‘World Wide Web’. He respectively declined. Ah well. I may find more discoveries to publish, if they continue to find favor.  
_

_I would point out that you should pay particular attention to the spy-craft of disguise and misdirection in this small novella. I believe you will find it a really a top-notch demonstration of our intrepid agent. Do not concern yourself that by publishing this account I am further endangering a fellow professional. I have been given to believe that you will keep the following text in the strictest of confidence and protect our fine, young, spy._

_  
Best Regards,  
Redd _

********

####  **ACT 1: _“Well, this could have gone better.”_**

Within the inner-city of New York, an 18-wheeler truck is parked in an alley between two abandoned warehouses. A man in casual street clothes walks quickly along the van to the open back of the truck. He climbs into the back, already loaded to capacity with contraband, and talks with his red-haired business partner nervously waiting just inside. A slim blond man, dressed in trashy street-ware of black sweater and pants sits waiting amongst the illegal boxes, carefully watching the pair.  
The men are clearly nervous as they discuss the proposed deal. “The truck looks great. There must be a fucking fortune here,” the man whispers to the other. “I know but it’s just that this guy makes me nervous.”  
“Hey, no problem. We just kill him and take the truck.”

Though the blond couldn’t hear their words, his instincts were on high alert that these two may be planning a receipt of the goods without proper payment. Most unprofessional. He jumped down from his perch and aggressively approached the men, his strong Russian accent amplified in his speech, “Enough. What is problem? I have been here too long. Talk to me or I go!”

The two Thrush thought they had the upper hand on the lone Russian smuggler. They sized him up and classified him like they did all foreigner’s: moderately stupid and easily intimidated. They would have no trouble taking this shipment of weapons for their own use. They had successfully shut down two U.N.C.L.E. bases overseas and they now planned a New York hit using these very weapons. “Hey, just give us a minute.”

“No. I have no more minutes.” The Russian turned to one of the boxes and expertly sliced it open, showing the contents. “See? Is prime equipment. Top of the line weapons, what every American wants. These are popular in your country, no? Every box holds 15 Soviet Kalashnikov rifles, each with scope and built-in silencer. No sound. You can not get this on open market, see?” The blond was holding one of the rifles up for view, like a salesman selling shoes. 

The Thrushmen remained nervous. “So why don’t you keep them and go into business for yourself if it’s such a great fucking deal.”  
“I would but I am not American. I have goods but no contacts, you see? You decide now.”

The two Thrush looked at each other, sending silent signals. The blond maneuvered to the open door of the truck, leaning against the side wall, the demonstration weapon still in his hand.  
The one Thrush jumped out and moved to the front cab while the nervous man reached into his jacket. “Now what was that price…” 

The man had no sooner begun to pull out his own gun when a New York City Police car turned into the alley. Both officers jumped out of the patrol car, sighted their guns on the two men, and yelled for them to freeze. The blond saw immediately that the Thrush was bringing out his gun to shoot the police so he took action by shooting him first using the “demonstration” weapon. Unfortunately, things then went from bad to worse. The police didn’t take kindly to any shooting and in reflex shot back. The sound of the shots alerted the other three Thrush operatives hiding in adjacent buildings and they rushed out to claim their property. In self defense, the blond smuggler, alias Illya Kuryakin U.N.C.L.E. agent, jammed himself flat against the side wall of the truck and hoped everyone was a bad shot. 

Napoleon Solo couldn’t wait any longer. With three new Thrush operatives attacking, the police shooting, and an U.N.C.L.E. agent in the middle, he needed to step in now. The two U.N.C.L.E. vehicles moved into the alley behind the police.  
Seeing the new vehicles, the Thrush agent in the truck’s cab started up the 18 wheeler’s engine and put it in gear with a jerk. The truck leaped forward and a startled Russian quickly grabbed a chain next to the open door to prevent himself from falling out. Sadly, he watched his partner jump out of the U.N.C.L.E. car as he was left behind in shock.

Kuryakin soon found it was all he could do to hang onto the chain as the truck thundered through the narrow alley at a dangerous speed. Both Thrush and U.N.C.L.E. agents found themselves chasing on foot after the truck, trying to catch up and claim possession.  
Solo jammed his car in reverse and, escaping the alley, sped off after the truck. Shouting orders into his communicator, he ordered the assault team into action to capture all remaining Thrush. He would give chase after the truck and his wayward partner.

It was soon apparent that the Thrush driver did not intend to be caught at any cost. The huge truck swung out of the alley, almost tipping over at the jerking action and quickly gained speed down the main street. Keeping closely behind, all Solo could do was watch his partner hold onto the chain in the truck as he helplessly swung around with each bounce. Unfortunately, the actions of the out-of-control truck soon gained the interest of the New York City Police and the chase took on new participants.

One police cruiser pulled in front of the truck, signaling for it to pull over. The Thrush driver, intent on escape, simply rammed into the car slamming it into a store front building before rushing on. Speeding down a side street the mighty truck swerved from side-to-side as the driver fought to maintain control at such a dangerous speed. Kuryakin found himself flung bodily outside the back, tossed up in the air with only the chain to keep him from being thrown out at the high speed.

Several of the police cars followed Solo across a row of train tracks, keeping up the chase while orders were shouted over the radios. Solo winced as Kuryakin was slammed against the side of the truck at one point but he was relieved that the tenacious Russian was still holding onto the chain that had become a life line.  
During a particularly bad turn, two of the police cars didn’t quite make it and crashed behind Solo. He could only watch as the truck rammed a parked car, thanking God it was empty, and saw the force throw Kuryakin off the chain into the deeper part of the truck. 

The Thrush driver laughed hysterically out the window, ramming more parked cars. In the back, each wild turn or violent impact with a car threw heavy boxes on top of the bouncing, tumbling Russian. The police set up a road block using several cars. In panic the Thrush driver pulled quickly to the right, jumped the curb, and ended up dragging through a city park filled with trees and swings, thankfully no people. He slammed on the brakes and jumped free to make a run for it. The Police had him before he left the park. 

Kuryakin slowly climbed out of the tumbled boxes bruised, disheveled, and banged up. The police were first on the scene and, guns drawn, yelled, “Freeze asshole!”  
Kuryakin grinned in what he hopped was a friendly manner as he slumped to the floor, “Can I interest anyone in a weapon?”  
Solo sauntered up through the police line and sighed, shaking his head at his partner. “Well, this could have gone better.”

********

Deep in U.N.C.L.E. Headquarters, Kuryakin walked down the hall towards the office he shared with his partner. He had yet to clean up as he wanted to get his report written as soon as possible. He was sure the Mr. Waverly would be calling him soon to give an account of himself. Several of his fellow agents called out amusing taunts of congratulations for his latest mission. The cold stare he gave them did little to squelch the comments and snickering. As if his day hadn’t gone bad enough, Napoleon was waiting for him in their office, leaning back in his chair, a smirk on his face.  
Stopping at the door Illya sighed heavily, “I don’t have time for you, Napoleon.”  
“Waverly is really burning, Illya. He’s been on the phone to the Police Commissioner for over an hour.”  
Illya turned and backed out of the room. Napoleon grinned at the Russian’s tactics. Determined not to relinquish his so-seldom advantage, he gave chase. “Personally, I don’t think it went so bad. We did after all catch all the Thrush, even the driver.” Napoleon’s sideways grin was not diminished by the cold glare of his partner. “Oh, but you didn’t see us capture the Thrushies did you? Exactly what were you doing when we made the collar, Illya?”

The Russian had made it down the hall and into the stairwell. Knowing Napoleon hated to take the stairs, he was naturally disappointed that his partner followed for more amusement. Illya called back over his shoulder, “You should know, Napoleon. While you were sitting comfortably in your vehicle, I was thrashing about trying to stay alive.”  
Kuryakin left the stairs on the next level and entered the records office – with Napoleon right behind him. Solo drawled “Oh I’m not saying we did anything wrong. I’m just saying if we hadn’t busted up half of New York making this sting it would have been better. But no, you wanted to have a big truck.”  
Kuryakin stopped so suddenly that Solo almost ran into him. He turned; his demeanor dangerous as he spoke slowly. “Napoleon you know we had to have a large enough supply of weapons in order to interest Thrush. A small van would have never gotten them to chew.”  
“That’s bite.” Napoleon corrected. “Illya, do you want my advice?”  
Grabbing a folder from one of the clerks, Kuryakin frowned and walked out of records and down the hall, “No Napoleon. I do not want your advice.”  
Napoleon was hard pressed to keep up. But he was like a young child playing with an angry tiger – he just couldn’t stop poking. “I’m just saying that when you get called into the Old Man’s office you might need some advice.”  
Kuryakin turned and blocked his partner, the look as foreboding as anyone who had just had a bad day and who’s body ached, “Napoleon, go away or I will have to shoot you.”

Illya went through the door into the U.N.C.L.E. lobby. Several of the agents there clapped in applause, calling their praise to the two top agents. “Hey, you guys got any extra weapons?” “Anyone need a police escort?” Illya growled as Napoleon bowed with a flourish, quickly catching up to the fast-moving Russian again. Both men stopped, however, as the receptionist caught them with a wave of her hand. “Guys! Mr. Waverly would like to see you both. And he said now.” 

Solo and Kuryakin entered the head of Section One’s office and quietly took their seats at the table. Mr. Waverly watched them with a steady glare. “Gentlemen. This was supposed to be a covert operation, was it not?” He did not wait for a reply as he continued – a sure sign of temper. “If I wanted to announce our affairs to the public and receive publicity, I would prefer it to be of a more positive nature.”  
“Sir ….” began Kuryakin but he was cut off.  
“I know all about the circumstances Mr. …. ah…. Kuryakin. I received a very detailed and lengthy description from the New York Police Commissioner concerning both yours and Mr. Solo’s escapades. I also received a very expensive bill for two police cruisers, three civilian vehicles, one store front window, several street signs, and one for city park landscaping.” 

“Ah, sir, we did capture all of the Thrush agents responsible for the recent attacks on U.N.C.L.E. bases. And Mr. Kuryakin was only trying to protect the lives of two police officers when things got a little out of hand.”  
“I did say I was very aware of the circumstances, Mr. Solo, did I not?” Solo blanched.  
Mr. Waverly sat back in his chair and sighed. These were his top agents; both men had an excellent track record of completing successful missions. They both always showed a distinct ability to overcome adversity and always protected the life of an innocent over their own. But…  
“Yes, well, gentlemen,” Waverly began in a slower and much calmer tone, “you are both very qualified agents and normally pride yourselves on keeping a low profile, as is our trademark. I would ask you to remember this in the future. I will expect not only to have your reports on my desk by the end of your shift today but that a low profile will be your top priority in the future. Do I make myself clear?”

Both said “Yes sir.”  
“Very well, you may go.” Waverly wasn’t finished yet. “And Mr. Kuryakin….”  
“Yes sir?”  
“The Commissioner wanted me to pass on his thanks for protecting his men. That will be all.”

********

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback and hot tips always appreciated


	2. Chapter 2

####  **ACT 2: _“This whole thing smells and you know it.”_**

Kuryakin drove home and was relieved when he found parking within walking distance of his apartment. His body ached and all he wanted was a hot shower and sleep. But even when exhausted, the experienced agent did not forget security. His eyes searched the streets outside and the lobby inside for any unusual activity. Lingering in the lobby and seeing nothing out of the ordinary, he made his way up the three-floor walk-up. At the top, just short of his floor, Kuryakin stopped. The alarm on his door was set, the light showed green but Illya had changed the lights and red was the correct display. Green meant tampering.  


He stood stock still, listening for sounds below or above him. Hearing nothing, Illya slowly made his way to the hall outside his door, still checking for sounds or movement. His gun was already in his hand.  
Quietly he pushed open his door. Peeking around the door jam, he visually checked his living room – empty. Testing behind the door – nothing. As he went in, he closed the door silently after him. Hearing sounds, he made his way like a ghost to the kitchen and took aim at the intruder sitting at his small kitchen table. Borrowing the phrase from the earlier police incident, he shouted, “Freeze asshole!” 

Immediately he released his grip and raised his weapon to the ceiling.  
Kuryakin sighed audibly, “Misha?!” The intruder took a moment to check that his heart was beating again. The sight of his very-close friend, almost a brother really, from the old country in attack-mode had scared the living daylights out of him.

The young man called Misha, a nickname for Mikhail, quickly jumped up and gave his friend a real Russian bear hug. _“Drug, moi drug!”_ Misha said and kissed his friend on both cheeks.  
Illya grinned and spoke in Russian. “I haven’t seen you in years. I see you are still breaking into places.”  
“What do you expect with that alarm system? It’s fantastic! I see you are still trying to keep people out.”  
Illya scoffed as he replaced his gun in his holster and saw most of the food from his refrigerator was lying out on the table half-eaten. “And I see that you are still a threat to food everywhere. And my Vodka?!”  
Misha laughed the carefree sound of Russians when they are relaxed and well fed. Illya took a seat opposite to help himself to what was left of his own food. “I have not seen you since I left Moskva. When did you arrive in America?”  
“I came to America six months ago.” Misha sat across from his friend and mentor. He was very young looking with sandy brown hair. He was football player bulky and had the eyes of an innocent.  
Illya’s eyebrows rose. Mikhail had been a young orphan like himself when they first met and had met up again in the military – Illya in Soviet Naval Intelligence. Because of Mikhail’s lack of education and his heavy size he was always destined for more athletic and guard assignments. They had spent several missions together and, despite their intellectual differences, Illya felt like Mikhail was a younger brother. Truth be known, before he left the Service for GRU, Illya spent some time keeping Mikhail out of trouble. He was prone to be impulsive and took impossible risks on missions. All things considered, Mikhail Aleksandr Petrovsky was the last man Illya expected to see outside of the Soviet Union.

“I got this great deal, Illya, and I left the military. A man I met on a mission also ran an Art Gallery. He brought me to America, to California!” Seeing Illya’s skeptical look, Misha explained hurriedly. “I know exactly what you are thinking. You don’t believe in great deals but it is true. Look, I’ll show you.” Misha pulled out a knap sack sitting on the floor by his luggage. He pulled out a tall stack of what looked like certificates. “Look, these are worth Ten Thousand Deutsche Marks!”

Illya stopped eating. He leaned over to take a closer look at the papers. “What is this?”  
“They are bonds, Bearer Bonds. Untraceable.”  
Illya stood up and looked at his friend, “Mikhail. You stole them?”  
Misha hesitated, “No. No of course not.”

Illya just shook his head and left the room. He went to his bedroom to get out of his dirty clothes and to think. He began to take off the sweater he wore during his undercover role just as Misha followed him in. “Illya….”  
“Look _moi drug_ , I don’t want to hear it. You are welcome to stay the night but that’s all.” Misha could see his friend didn’t approve. Illya was always so strict, so correct.  
Misha’s eyebrows rose as he caught sight of the badly bruised torso of his friend. He whistled in surprise, “Whoa, what truck ran you over?”  
Illya chuckled in spite of the situation, “Not run over, I just danced with one.” 

Illya turned to the bathroom, clearly ready to shut his friend out. Misha saw they had lost their celebratory mood and he desperately wanted to get it back. “Look, I can’t stay so come out and have a drink with me before I leave – for old time’s sake. Come on Illya. One vodka between comrades. On me….”  
Illya looked up and saw the need on his friend’s face and, just like old times, he gave in. “Okay. But let me shower and change and then we can go.”  
Misha smiled his sloppy grin and left his friend while he went on the prowl for what other food Illya kept in his cupboards. Knowing Illya, there wouldn’t be much.

********

“What were you doing in California?” Illya asked. He had taken Misha to a small neighborhood bar and they were drinking vodka and playing a game of pool. Here they spoke in English.  
“I was working.”  
“Working where, specifically?”  
“Guess.”  
Illya frowned at his friend’s games, “Misha, I have no idea. Where were you working?”  
Misha grinned, Illya was always a grouch. He was always too serious. He thought America should have mellowed him out by now. Maybe Illya needed to go to California. “I work in Beverly Hills!”

“What is this Beverly Hills?” Illya asked not familiar with the reference.  
“Oh, Illya!” Misha was exasperated with his friend, “You know, THE Beverly Hills. In Los Angeles!”  
“Of course, that Beverly Hills.” Rolling his eyes as the reference was lost on him, he took up his cue stick, “What were you doing there?”  
“You won’t believe this, Illya. I am a Security Guard.”  
Illya leaned over for his shot, “Who would hire you for such a position?”

“Alevtina Makarova! Only she is Ally Summers now.”  
“Alya?!” Illya stood up in surprise. Two of his friends from what seemed a life-time ago. Alevtina was the third member of the group of small sized orphans that formed a protective unit of sorts. From that young age, Illya had always called her little Alya. “What is Alya doing in America?”  
“She’s doing great. She is the manager of this Art Gallery I was telling you about. Maitland Galleries out in Beverly Hills. It is world famous. Have you heard of it?”  
Lost in thought, Illya said absently, “Of course, I buy all my art there.” Misha laughed, having seen Illya’s apartment. He went back to the bar, “Two more Vodkas.”

As Misha flirted with the waitress and the negotiation of a sizable tip, Illya noted the younger man had paid for everything, throwing a lot of money around. Not for the first time the agent in him wondered what his friend was into. That thought brought his mind to his own past. Illya thought about his Russian friends. Misha, Alya, and he all came from the same background. They all lost their parents early in life and were brought up in State Institutions. They had grown up alone and all had experienced violence at early ages. Maybe that is why they were drawn together, Illya mused. After all these years, he still felt very protective of them.

Misha walked back to their table with their drinks  
“I’ve got a great idea. A fantastic idea!” exclaimed Misha. “Let’s steal a car!”  
Illya sighed knowing Misha was drunk. “Misha be serious. I have my car right outside.”  
“No, I mean a real car,” and he laughed at his friend’s look.  
“Illya remember when we were under fire on that mission in Latvia? You were stupid enough to get shot?”  
“Yes, I remember, Misha. I remember you carried me out.”  
Misha smiled his silly, sloppy smile at his mentor. “Of course. And you know why don’t you?”  
Illya looked at the other man, “Why?”  
“You don’t know why?”  
“No.”  
“Because I love you comrade. You are my brother, yes?”  
“Yes,” Illya whispered. 

As Misha finished his drink; he was still in a festive mood. His table mate leaned back in his chair deep in the past. 

********

They were both leaning on each other, Misha was pretty drunk and Illya was not much better. He should have known better than to have swallowed so much vodka on an empty stomach.  
They made their way slowly up the stairs to Illya’s apartment. It was decided that Misha was in no shape to leave so he would, after all, stay the night. The three floors of stairs took their toll on the two and by the time they got to the top they were stumbling  
.  
Illya stood Misha up against the wall in the hall, “Now stay right there, Misha. I have to open the door. Think. Think balance.” Giggling, Misha put his hands out awkwardly trying to balance and stay on his feet. Unfortunately, the world was not cooperating. Carefully, Illya took his hands away from his swaying friend and turned to his alarm system.

Suddenly a man came up behind Illya and smashed the back of his head with the butt of a gun. Illya slumped to the floor swallowed up in darkness so complete that it left him with no sound, no light.  
Two men leaped on the other Russian. Mikhail, his training coming into play, fought back but he was too drunk to be affective. One of the men slammed the young Russian into the wall. A third man came slowly around the corner of the hall. This man scared Mikhail.  
“Hey Mikhail. Where’ve you been?”  
“Hi Zack.” Mikhail was still carrying his knap sack. He held it close now as he trembled.  
“What have you got there, Mikhail?” The scary man took the sack. Mikhail looked longingly down at his protector, but Illya was slumped unconscious on the floor.

The scary man took out the papers that were in the sack. Mikhail pleaded “You know Zack, I would have brought them back.”  
“Did you get lost?” the man asked in a soft voice.  
“No. I came to see my friend from Russia and I just had them with me. I figured, you know….” The scary man smacked Mikhail across the face, once and then again.  
“What am I supposed to do here, Mikhail Aleksandr? Did you tell anyone else?”  
“No, no. Zack, there was a whole box full of those things. I took only a couple of them. I didn’t think anyone was going to miss them.”  
The scary man sighed and softly said, “Shut up.”  
But Mikhail was too scared to be quiet, “I’m sorry. I am so sorry.”  
“Shut up.” The man put his arm around Mikhail’s shoulders and urged him down the hall away from the unconscious limp form on the floor. “I swear Mikhail, I swear I can’t have you talking to anyone else …”  
“No. I won’t. I promise.”  
“Okay.” The scary man released the young man. But suddenly he smashed his fist into Mikhail’s abdomen. The Russian bent over in pain, trying to get his breath. And then the man took out his gun and put two bullets into the back of Mikhail’s head.

********

The U.N.C.L.E. clean up crew was very efficient. They took over Kuryakin’s apartment, the building and half of the block. Illya, himself was outside, leaning against his car, pressing an ice pack against the back of his head.  
“Illya!” He winced at the sound. His partner called to him from the steps of the apartment building. “Sorry. I thought Mr. Waverly ordered you to Medical to get that injury to your head checked out.  
“My head is fine.”  
“I don’t think he meant it as a request Illya.” Solo turned back to the Section Four agents checking in. Seeing that Illya had not moved, Napoleon knew his partner was not going to cooperate. He left the other agents and approached, “Illya, old man, you know you need to go get checked out. It’s policy.”  
“Napoleon, I heard that you were going to use Braxton as lead investigator on this shooting. You know he is not experienced enough for this.”  
“He’s knowledgeable, Illya. He can cover the details.”  
“Napoleon, it is the first time he has worked in the field in over a year.”  
“Okay, I’ll put Tandino on it. Now go to Medical.” Solo turned to head over to the Command van but Kuryakin persistently followed.  
“Napoleon, I thought I might investigate also.” Napoleon sighed, “Illya, don’t do it. You know the Old Man frowns on getting personally involved.”  
“We are talking about my friend.”  
Napoleon turned, “Yes I know. And let’s take a close look at that. One – this was an illegal Russian immigrant friend. Two – this was an outside hit, not Thrush. And three – this was a hit at an U.N.C.L.E. agent’s apartment. This whole thing smells and you know it.”  
Illya side-stepped the issues but one. “How do you know it was not Thrush?”  
“Who ever killed your friend wasn’t worried about you, didn’t know you. Not even after seeing your undercover gun, not even after seeing your apartment alarm system visible at the door. If they were after you, you would be lying beside your friend. No, there are too many questions. You can’t do a damn thing, Illya. You need to stay out of this.”

Kuryakin took a deep breath and caught up with his partner again. “Napoleon, I believe I have some vacation time coming.”  
Solo hesitated, not liking the sound of this. “You have a lot of vacation time on the books, what of it?”  
“I want to take my vacation now.”  
Both men glared at each other.  
“You need to stay away from this case, Illya. Waverly will have your head if you don’t.”  
“Of course, Napoleon. I just feel I need a vacation, that’s all.” 

Solo knew the Russian was lying, he knew it as soon as the baby blue eyes went all innocent on him. But a request was a request and he guessed he could cover with Waverly for a while. “All right. However, _after_ you’re done in Medical.”  
Illya frowned.  
“But Illya, if Waverly catches you butting into this case it could be the longest vacation you ever heard of.”

********

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback is always greatly appreciated.


	3. Chapter 3

####  **ACT 3: _“Excuse me Mr. Kuryakin, if I appear a little rude.”_**

Illya’s plane had landed that afternoon in Los Angeles, California. The car rental agents were surprised, but not unprepared, as the client insisted on claiming the cheapest vehicle they had.

“Here is your ‘Hello Beach’ sun visor, your Coke-A-Cola tote bag and your coupons for any of the Disneyland souvenirs. Also here is your map of our Celebrity Home Tour.” Seeing her customer slowly back away from the counter, she cheerfully persisted, “Oh yes sir, you’ll want to see John Wayne’s ranch house and it is a total gas to stop by Doris Day’s place. I heard she often invites people in for coffee. Like for real! Just hang loose while you’re here and you’ll see.”  
He suddenly felt a premonition that things were going pear-shaped.

The sales agent then handed the keys and receipt to Kuryakin and pointed out to the lot. There, barely taking up a parking space, was a tiny, bright yellow box with wheels.  
“What is this?”  
“Oh, that’s a Bug, sir. A classic.”  
“A … Bug? Does it have a motor?”  
“Of course, sir. It’s a Volkswagen Beetle. It’s very hip.”  
“Ah yes. German.” Kuryakin shook his head knowingly. As he remembered, the trick was to enter and exit the vehicle with the minimum of fuss.  
“Have a nice day,” called the agent. 

Kuryakin was soon driving down immaculately landscaped parkways and fabulous estates, passing a freshly painted sign: 

****

**__**

####  **_‘Welcome to Beverly Hills’_ **

Illya did not remember ever seeing such a flawlessly clean city. Everywhere he looked security gated estates dotted the landscape. Hotels painted pink and pastel color buildings crowded the skyway as he crossed Rodeo Drive. Store fronts with names like Cartier, Louis Vuitton, Nina Ricci, and Fendi seemed to be common place.  
From his car, Illya saw a tall, lanky pedestrian walk by with huge red hair and purple tights with interesting locations of missing fabric. Jogging across the street was a woman in pink leotards leading a large pink poodle – both dressed alike with matching jeweled collars. He was not in Russia anymore, he chuckled in amazement.  
A blonde couple in a sleek, red convertible BMW pulled up alongside of the yellow Bug. The woman raised her dark glasses and smiled mouthing a very suggestive, sexual request to him. His eyebrows rose as she did explicit things with her mouth to punctuate her message. The man beside her did not look like he took kindly to the offer and took the next turn. Kuryakin shook his head as the bizarre sights left him incredulous. And not in New York either it seems.

U.N.C.L.E. had recommended the Beverly Hills Palms but, as he approached the ostentatious building, Illya wondered if he was not again the target of one of Solo’s jokes. His partner’s amusement at Illya’s frugal ways was often a sore spot. But since this trip was completely funded by Kuryakin himself, he would have to watch expenses very carefully.  
As he pulled up his next hint that this Hotel would be slightly out of his price range was the Valet dressed in an ornate, gold lined uniform; complete with top hat and tails. The man quickly ran up to his tiny Bug and drew open the door for him.  
“Welcome to ‘The Palms’ sir. We hope your day has gone well so far.”  
Kuryakin scowled.

The Door Captain took one look at the blonde’s understated yellow transportation, the off-the-rack dark jacket, black turtleneck sweater and slacks and he frowned. By Beverly Hills standards this man was shamefully underdressed. As he approached, he watched as the gentleman nimbly remove himself from his tiny car. “Are we checking in today sir?”  
“Hmmm. That depends. Is this hotel expensive?”  
“Not for Beverly Hills sir.”  
“May I get your bags for you sir?” Kuryakin turned, surprised to see a new man appear out of nowhere. The Porter scowled at the sorry state of the luggage as he gingerly reached into the back seat for the single, badly worn duffle bag and a brand-new empty Coke-A-Cola tote bag. The agent tried to take control of his own property but was beaten to it by the over-eager Porter.  
Before he could even think of trying another hotel, Illya found he was completely surrounded by men in uniform. This felt vaguely familiar and not in a good way.

The Captain of the Door announced, “This way if you please, sir.”  
In close formation, they left the Valet as he removed his hat and uniform coat in order to fit into the car. He was heard marveling under his breath, “Neat wheels!”

Kuryakin entered the lavish lobby followed by the formal Captain and then the Porter holding his bags with two extended fingers as far away from his person as possible.  
A cheerful, fresh faced young lady was at the Registration Desk. Her boss had just informed her that, while the hotel was booked solid, she must be on the look-out for an important foreign billionaire, from the Berlin, would be arriving any minute to look over the hotel with the idea to purchase it for his mistress. The hotel was to pick up all costs and no service was to be sparred.  
Kuryakin walked up.  
“Good morning, sir. Isn’t it a beautiful day? Now how can we help you?”  
He groaned at such brightness, it was becoming painful. “What is the price of your least expensive room?”  
The Registration clerk recognized the foreign accent immediately and paused. It was common knowledge that the more money a guest had – the cheaper looking the clothes. By the look of the clothes on this man, she thought she had a billionaire in front of her. To Illya’s discomfort the clerk’s smile, if anything, grew wider.  
Always taking the more important guests, the young lady’s supervisor appeared instantaneously and spoke in German to the casually dressed client. Surprised, Illya responded to the man’s question in kind as to how he compared Beverly Hills weather to that of Berlin, although he thought the man’s accent was abominable. Maybe seeing him arrive in a German vehicle, they expected a German citizen. Illya shrugged.

Welcome to the Beverly Hills Palms Hotel. We offer many Spa and luxury services for your use at any hour of the day or night. As with all our special Guests, we also offer private transportation to any of your high-profile events. In certain situations, we can also arrange an exclusive companion for sir at your pleasure. And, of course, a bodyguard can be made available for you.”  
“Err. I don’t think that will be necessary.”  
“Of course, sir. We have your suite all ready for you. Of course, it goes without saying that all of your expenses will be covered by the hotel. The Bell Captain will take you to Suite 1035. It is the Penthouse.”  
“My room?”  
“Yes sir.”  
“For me?”  
“Yes sir, of course.”  
“But you do not even know who I am.”  
“Of course, sir. We have many celebrities staying with us who also wish to remain anonymous. If there is anything we can do, please don’t hesitate to ask. Guten Morgen.”  
“Danke. Guten Morgen.” Kuryakin shrugged, spies always go with the flow.

The Bell Captain jumped right up and he and the Porter led the way to the uniformed elevator operator. “Oh no, after you please sir.” They all got in for the ride up.  
“Have a nice day,” called the perky desk clerk.

********

Illya walked to his next stop, the Gallery, although it didn’t look like too many people walked in this town. The parade of vehicles was interesting; cherry red convertibles, sleek silver Porsche’s, many BMW’s of all colors, and he meant all colors. Oddly no other German Bugs though. 

Shaking his head, he found himself longing for the sensible citizens of New York City. He noted the address and opened the crystal clean glass doors to the Maitland Gallery.  
Kuryakin had been in many of the Art Museums of the world but he had never seen this type of attractions before. There were a few florescent nudes framed on the wall and several, a little too abstract, pieces on shelves. But something remarkable caught his eye. In the center of the room was a kitchen table, very much like his own back in New York City. On top of the table were rotating decapitated heads, each on a serving plate. A manikin stood nearby with a chain around its neck. Illya took a closer look trying to see the point but it was lost on him. 

He jumped as an effusive man, complete with an odd accent, asked, “How are you all doing today?” The man, medium age, was dressed in the most colorful Kaftan Illya had ever seen. An art piece all on its own.  
“Hello. I am fine.”  
The man however replied to his own question, “Yes I’m fine. My name is Serrje. And how can I be helpful of you?”  
Unusually distracted by the man’s lavish costume, Illya momentarily lost his train of thought. “Ah, yes….. I am looking for…. Ally Summers?” 

Serrje paused with a pout and shook his head sadly, “Jhe is very busy today. Maybe so you give me your name?”  
“My name is Illya Kuryakin.”  
“Really?!” the man gushed.  
Puzzled at the interest Illya answered warily, “Yes really.”  
“And what is taining?”  
Illya frowned. He knew many languages but this man seemed to have combined several when he talked. “I’m sorry. I did not understand what you asked?”  
This did not seem to upset Serrje as he explained, “Taining, what its meaning, regarding….”  
“Ah, what is it regarding. I’m an old acquaintance of hers.”  
“No Really?!” the man enthused again.  
Serrje reluctantly turned and called out, “Donnae?” Turning back to Illya he said politely, “One mo.”  
While they waited for what, Illya didn’t know, Serrje gave the blond Russian a very overt inspection leaning back to check out Illya’s posterior. He seemed to favor what he saw as a slow smile grew on his lips.  


A young man came up to them and Serrje began addressing him. “Donnae run and tell Ms. Summers that Mr. Eya Krockkin…”  
“It is pronounced Illya Kuryakin.”  
Serrje watched Illya’s lips closely as he tried his best to say the name. “Eyah… Leeah… Eena?” He finally gave up. “Tell Ms. Summers that Mr. Krocin is here for her. He’s old acquaintance.” But Serrje could not contain his disdain, his eyes distracted by his co-worker’s unbuttoned shirt down to his belt was truly upsetting him. “Donnae! Cover this up. It’s like the breast of a dog to scrub for the customer. It’s not sexy.” The flustered Donnae, quickly apologized and left on his task.  
Illya was fascinated as he listened to Serrje’s outburst at the offense. “It’s not sexy. The hair comes out. It’s animally, you know?” Serrje’s face broke into a smile. “You, you are sexy. You’re covered but only little bit. Very sexy,” Serrje flirted.  
Illya nodded not sure what to say and not sure he followed all that was said. 

“Now can I offer you something to drink? A wine, a cocktayal, a … ah… exstresso?”  
Illya’s eyes narrowed as he tried to follow the man’s speech pattern but Serrje seemed to be waiting for his answer patiently. “Ah no, I am fine.”  
“The exstresso. I meke it myself, right back there with a little lime twist. Its good, you should try it.”  
Illya wasn’t sure but he thought Serrje was flirting with him as the man was starting to giggle. “No thank you, I’m fine.”

“I see you like this piece much?” Serrje was continuing to be friendly while they waited. He pointed to the kitchen table.  
“Yes, it is interesting. I was wondering how much something like this would cost?”  
“One Hundred, Thirty Thousand Dollars.” It seems on money, his accent was precise.  
“Bozhe Moi!” exclaimed Illya, unable to comprehend that much money for a piece of his own kitchen.  
Serrje squealed “No I cannot. I’m serious because it is very important piece.”  
Illya shook his head, “Have you ever sold one of these?”  
“Ov course. I sold two yesterday to a cojector.”  
“Idiota kusok!” Serrje seemed to love Illya’s cursing. Surprisingly, he also seemed to understand the Russian words.  
“No, I’m serious. As you say, the client was a stupid idiot but I sold it myself!”

********

Hearing Russian being spoken, Ally leaned over the balcony and saw her long ago dear friend, the familiar straw blond hair, the enigmatic blue eyes and sexy smile that she could never get past. She called down in Russian, “Illya Nickovitch, what on earth are you doing here?” This got Serrje very excited.  
“Alevtina Makarova, how are you?” Illya responded in Russian.  
“I’m doing fabulous darling,” she laughed, so pleased to see her old childhood friend again. “Hold a second, I’ll be right down.” The young woman had blond hair in the style of every celebrity in fashion that year. She was petite but with a shapely build and had very trendy, if not expensive, taste in clothes.  
“Excuse me Serrje.” Illya said as he moved over to the Gallery staircase. Serrje frowned in disappointment. 

The young women came running down the stairs and gave Illya a long, loving, sister-type hug. “What are you doing here? Oh, it’s so good to see you!”  
The woman switched to English as she pushed the slim blond away from her so she could get a good look at him. He had changed little – still serious, and still very much a hunk. “How’ve you been?”  
“I am fine.” They both laughed as he caught himself using the phrase again. “But look at you.” Illya said appreciatively.  
“You like?” she asked hesitantly. It had always mattered what Illya thought, she mused.  
“Yes. You look wonderful. But older, yes?” Illya teased as he touched her chin with his hand.  
“Fuck you,” she laughed. She ruffled his longish hair, no longer cut in the short military style, but shaggy and silky, much like the pop culture crowd. “What’s this?”  
“What?” Illya shrugged. He couldn’t help but quickly shake his hair back in order “It is my own form of rebellion.”  


She laughed at the thought of the shy, serious man planning a revolution. “By the way, it’s Ally now. Ally Summers. I can’t believe I’m seeing you! We all lost contact with you when you went into GRU. Misha and I missed you terribly, you know that don’t you?” She knew he would blush at that. “I had heard you had left Soviet Union.”  
“Yes, I live in New York City now. Misha came out to see me and…” Illya paused, “Ally, do you have some place where we can talk?”  
“Well, yeah,” Ally stopped and looked around, “right over here.”  
As they moved over to the far side of the gallery, Illya appreciated the changes in Ally. Speaking boldly in his surprise he said “I can’t believe how you have changed.”  
“Yeah, I’ve filled out.” Ally quipped.  
“No, you look good though.” 

Ally laughed as they went over to a side table and chairs, sitting down next to her old friend. She hesitated as she saw the serious side of Illya surface. The blue eyes, always so intense, warned her of something bad coming. “I want to talk to you about Misha.”  
“Lay it on me. Is he in trouble again?”  
Illya was not quite sure how to say the words, but in his usual manner, he was blunt. “He is dead.”  
“What?!” Ally whispered, her eyes glistening in the sudden emotion and surprise.  
Illya nodded, “He is dead. He came to New York to see me and somebody killed him.”

Ally looked away in distress, “I don’t believe this.” Illya watched his friend closely, looking for any deception.  
A phone nearby began to ring. Slowly the ringing caught the distraught Ally’s attention and she reluctantly picked up the phone, “Look I’ll be up in a second. I can’t right now.” Slowly she turned back to Illya, her face pale in shock. 

Illya continued, “Misha mentioned that you helped him get a job.”  
“Yeah, umm. The guy who owns this Gallery brought him in. He hired him as a Security Guard as a favor to me.”  
“Who is this man?”  
“His name is Viktor Maitland. Misha is … was working for Viktor at the Gallery’s warehouse.” Ally was visibly upset, “Look Illya, I can’t talk right now. I have to go back upstairs.”  
“I understand. I will call you later and we can get together and talk, yes?”  
Ally looked as if she would cry but she just shook her head. They had all been such close friends at one time. Made closer by the troubles they endured together. And now one of them is gone. “Da,” she replied, reverting to Russian.  
She kissed him on both cheeks and gave him a hug. Illya whispered in her ear, “Be safe.” It was their old Russian mantra.

********

Illya much preferred the back door or covert way of gathering information. But with his vacation leave time constraints and his lack of resources in this region of the country, he had to move quickly and take the offensive. Illya had little choice but to take a bold, frontal approach. As Napoleon would say, he had to put the ‘heat on.’  
Illya removed his jacket and rolled up the sleeves of his sweater; looking more like a young delivery boy. He carried an over-large bouquet of flowers and balloons stuffed in the bright Coke-A-Cola tote bag up the staircase of the lavish Beverly Hills office building. He jogged up casually to the receptionist at the top of the stairs.  
“Excuse me miss,” he said using a heavier form of his accent, playing the lost foreigner.  
“Like hi yourself. What’s up?” said the young woman smiling. She had removed the flower pen from her mouth and almost bounced from behind the reception desk.  
Illya’s confusion at the girl’s opening was real. “I, err I have a delivery for Viktor Maitland.”  
The petite blonde in a mini skirt was quickly in his space, “Tell me. What’s your scene baby?” Oh wow, she smiled thoughtfully, that blonde surfer look really turned her on.  
“My scene? No, I have a delivery,” he repeated, pushing the tote bag between them.  
“Like that’s sooo cool. I love like deliveries. They are sooo groovy!”  
Groovy? Was that a good thing? The blue eyes were beguiling as he boyishly grinned at the ingenue. The shy, lost look always seemed to work for him. “I … I must give this to him myself. Right away.”  
“For sure! But ah deliveries, ya know, are supposed, well, to be left, like here.”  
Illya shook his head trying to follow her English but he plunged ahead. “Yes, but he has to get these flowers right away. And you would not want me to lose my job. I’m going to go up myself, yes?”  
Illya made for the stairs without waiting for approval. The woman couldn’t help but return the smile as she became flustered. “Well, ya know, like, you’re not, gosh . . . supposed to umm … go up….”  
“Yes, but flower delivery is my life. I have to take it up. Have a nice day.” The girl could only watch the retreating sexy butt disappear up the stairs.

********

“Who let you in here?”  
Kuryakin entered Viktor Maitland’s private office minus the flowers. Back was the jacket and his Special clearly showing. All his instinct’s as an U.N.C.L.E. agent took over, the cold, hard, confident demeanor clearly in his walk and manner.  
“I let myself in.”  
Immediately he saw the tracking and communication devices in the expensively modern office. Kuryakin approached the man sitting behind the lone desk with a phone to his ear. He wore a suit as nice as Napoleon but he was older and colder. He had short, graying hair and spoke with an accent. Not Russian, possibly a Soviet satellite.  
He acknowledged Maitland’s guest sitting off to the side, a short man in a suit but he had thug written all about him.  
“I’ve come to ask you some questions about Mikhail Aleksandr Petrovsky.” 

Maitland quickly looked at his aide and hung up the phone he was on. A grim look was plastered on his face as he turned his cold eyes on this bold visitor. “And what may I ask is your interest in Mr. Petrovsky?”  
“He was a friend. He came to see me in New York a few days ago and a couple hours after he got there, someone killed him.”  
In false shock, Maitland gasped, “Mikhail? That’s terrible.” Maitland turned to his henchman, “This is my associate Mr. Zack Beridze. Isn’t that terrible, Zack?”  
“It is.”  
Kuryakin watched closely the interaction of both men. Maitland, a possible East European with a Georgian? Beridze is a common Georgian surname. What is going on here?  
“And…what is it that you wish to know?” Maitland asked quietly.  
“Mikhail worked for you, didn’t he?”  
“Yes, yes he did. Good gracious.” Maitland gushed as he looked again to the thug sitting quietly. The look between the two men was not lost on Kuryakin. “I’m really sorry to hear this. Would you like to sit down? Can Zack …. get you anything?  
“No, I am fine,” he said quietly observing the man before him.

“Well, how on earth did this happen? New York is a very violent city, isn’t it?” The business man sensed this was a man who would not be pushed. The way his visitor positioned himself in the room, the awareness in his body, aggressive but assured, confident. One dangerous man meeting another.  
Kuryakin and Maitland locked eyes. Quietly Illya responded, “It can be.”  
Of course, Maitland noticed the weapon casually obscured inside the jacket, a weapon of a professional. He also expertly detected the Russian accent.  
“Well I do hope the police have procured some intelligent leads?”  
After a pause, Kuryakin ignored the question, “Exactly what was it that Mr. Petrovsky did for you here?”  
Maitland did not like the question. “I’m sorry I did not catch your name.”  
“That is because I did not give it.”  
“Then excuse me, if I appear a little rude,” Maitland moved casually over to his desk and touched a button by his chair, “but this sounds like something for the authorities in New York.” A door opened behind Illya, “So if you’ll forgive me, I really must get back to work.”

Suddenly six large men in suits jumped on top of the agent, then bodily lifted him off the floor and roughly carried him out, the bundle fighting all the way.  
Along the way, two of the men were left behind with severe bruises and reduced levels of consciousness, but the others still had the man held fast. At the bottom of the stairs, the men that were left standing, heaved and tossed Kuryakin bodily through the front picture window of the office building, noisily shattering the huge plate window into a thousand pieces. 

Outside, Illya groggily sat up. He found himself sitting amid the broken glass when a police cruiser, siren blaring, drove up over the curb and screeched to a stop in front of him. Two police officers jumped out and, with guns drawn, ordered, “Please, sir, move to the side of the car and put your hands on the hood.”  
Illya sighed. At least they said please.  
The other officer politely commanded, “You heard what he said, sir. Do it right now, please.” The clean-cut officer helped him up and positioned him against the hood spread-eagle. The sidewalk grew with pedestrian attraction. The officer patted his body in a standard search when he suddenly located the agent’s hidden weapon. The tension in the two officers went up immediately. One shouted, “Gun, partner!”  
Illya sighed heavily now. This is not exactly what Mr. Waverly meant by keeping a low profile. Why must he have all the bad days?  


The other clean-cut dark-haired officer trained his gun on the suspect, “Sir, you are under arrest. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to have an attorney present during questioning.”  
The officer finished patting down the suspect and locked Illya’s hands behind his back in handcuffs.  
Illya shook his head sadly. Many times, he had found himself in this position but usually in a cell within a Thrush base. Not usually when he was on vacation.  
“Yes, I understand my rights. I will agree to anything when a gun is pointed at me with very little encouragement,” he responded to the polite officer when asked. But over his vast experience, Illya had never been treated so nicely when captured; not by Thrush and surly not by Soviet. You could truly say this was the nicest time he’d ever had in handcuffs. But then this was the first time he was ever arrested for getting thrown out of a window.

“May I ask what the charge is?” Illya’s head throbbed and a cut bled down the side of his face.  
One of the officers was gently cleaning the cut with antiseptic while the other was busy sweeping up the glass. By now the area was almost devoid of any mess. “Possession of a concealed weapon and disturbing the peace.”  
Illya stopped and starred. “Disturbing the peace?” That was going to be embarrassing.  
Then the officer politely opened the back-car door, “Please come and take a seat, sir.” He said it exactly as the maître d at the Russian Tea Room in New York greeted him in the past. Illya shook his head as he moved to sit, grumbling, “But I was the one thrown out of a window. Or is that common place in Beverly Hills?”  
The police officer thoughtfully ignored the question as he helped his suspect to step into the back. “Please sir, watch your head as you enter the vehicle.”  
“Yobannoe dno” It just got better and better, the Russian thought sarcastically.  
“Here now. No bad language in the car please sir.”

********

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback and hot tips are much appreciated.


	4. Chapter 4

#### ACT 4: _“Supper sir? Compliments of Mr. Kuryakin.”_

“Yes sir, we clean our vehicles every day. Thank you for asking,” the Policeman responded.  
Illya leaned back and closed his eyes. He did feel like he had just entered the bizarre world of Alice in Wonderland and he supposed he had fallen through the ‘looking glass’. However, the vehicle did look cleaner than his apartment.  
The officers did not seem put-off by his lack of witty repartee as they pulled up in front of the manicured lawn of the Police Station set back amongst neatly trimmed trees and over-flowing flower boxes. As the officers helped the suspect out of the car, Kuryakin saw the rich architecture of the building set against a clear blue sky and a coffee cart outside.  
“ _Unbelievable,_ ” he shook his head as he compared it to other police stations he had known. The Officers stopped briefly at the cart and treated him to a café latte. With sprinkles.  
Illya was left to wait in a well-lit, clean room (you couldn’t call it a cell) with its own phone, sipping his latte. The officers thoughtfully had removed his handcuffs after taking his picture and prints. After a short time, he was then escorted through one of the most technologically advanced control rooms he had ever seen outside of U.N.C.L.E. headquarters. He would have really enjoyed a tour if he wasn’t so worried at what the next meeting would be like when his true identity was found out. He had to avoid New York getting word of his actions at all costs.

With his hands again handcuffed behind his back, an officer took Kuryakin by the arm and led him through a glass door to an open office area.  
“Have a seat right over there, sir” indicated an older, balding plain-clothes officer. ‘ _Ah the interrogation,_ ’ the agent thought warily. The older man sat down at a desk in front of him and his apparent partner, a much younger man, leaned against another desk. That desk moved abruptly and the younger man almost fell over. He blushed in embarrassment.  
“I’m Sgt. Taggart and this is my partner, Detective Rosewood.  
“My compliments, gentlemen.”  
Taggart did not seem to take to the agent’s politeness. “Your fingerprints confirm your name is Ill-ya Kur-something. That can’t be your real name.”  
“I beg your pardon but that _is_ my real name. Although you've completely mangled it.”  
Taggart’s gruffness and all-business approach was very apparent and he didn’t take to a smart mouth. “That’s enough. Why didn’t you identify yourself as an Agent with U.N.C.L.E. when you were arrested?”  
“Because I am on vacation. I was enjoying your lovely city when I was simply thrown out of a window.”  
Taggart raised his voice, not taking kindly to this cocky, arrogant Spy. “We have six witnesses that say you broke in and started tearing up the place, then jumped out the window.”  
“And you both believe that?” Illya’s voice was flat, holding in his anger. “Are you not going to even investigate? Take evidence? This is unbelievable.”  
“We’re more likely to believe an important local businessman than an immature, amateur wanna-be cop from out of town.  
“Immature? Amateur? Wanna-be?!” said the ruffled Russian, his eyes gone cold. “Any self- respecting investigator worth his weight in sovereigns could see through this claim. It is you who are the amateurs!” He knew he was going too far, but he was hot, tired, and had been thrown through a window. His frustration was getting the better of him. 

Taggart quickly rose from his chair and stood over the young squirt that probably thought he was above the law. “You watch your mouth.”  
Rosewood stood also and tried to calm his partner.  
“Amateurs! It is a wonder that you found out my identity at all.” Kuryakin said in disgust as he boldly stood up in front of the balding blockhead that was going to get in the way of his investigation.  
Taggart didn’t like this kid not backing down so he pushed him back. Illya’s eyes narrowed in threat. Even with his arms still locked behind his back he was dangerous. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”  
Taggart poked his finger at the so-called spy. “Don’t threaten me, you little twerp.”  
Kuryakin smirked, “Yes, you would resort to childish name calling wouldn’t…. Offff!” Before he could get out the rest of his sentence, Taggart hauled off and slammed his fist into the Agent’s mid-section. 

“Taggart!”  
A man within the only office quickly rose when he saw what had just happened.  
Kuryakin barely noticed as he slowly lowered himself back down in the chair, gasping for breath.  
Taggart sighed, “Yes sir?”  
A tall, slender man stepped out of his office; leadership written all over him. “Come here.”  
Taggart reluctantly made his way over to his boss. Kuryakin could see the very familiar look of a good dressing down.  
After much consultation Taggart, again reluctantly, came back to address Kuryakin, his boss beside him. It was very clear Taggart wanted to be anywhere but here at this moment. He sighed and addressed a still bent-over Kuryakin, “Sir. I apologize for striking you.” Taggart rolled his eyes, “I have no excuse.”  
Kuryakin looked from the boss to the Sargent in disbelief. It was Kuryakin’s experience that authority never apologized. His eyes narrowed, distrusting the situation, “Consider it forgotten.”  
The leader spoke, “Detective Rosewood, release this man from his cuffs.” Rosewood attempted this but, filled with the tension of what was going on, had some trouble with the key. Kuryakin sighed and released himself, much to the surprise of his audience.  
The boss continued. “Agent Kuryakin. I’m Lieutenant Bogomil of the Beverly Hills Police Department. Do you wish to file charges against Sgt. Taggart?”  
Again, Kuryakin starred, disbelieving the question. Rubbing his stomach, now that his arms were free, he could not remember being treated by authorities with such respect. Even in U.N.C.L.E. after all these years, respect was hard won.  
“This is some kind of test, yes?”  
Bogomil’s grim expression didn’t change as he repeated his question. “Do you wish to file charges against this officer for assault?”  
Kuryakin sighed, “Look, we are on the same side, for the same good. No, I do not wish to file charges. I also apologize Sgt. Taggart.”  
Taggart looked very relieved as he sat back behind his desk, if not sheepish at letting the situation get so far out of hand. Kuryakin joined him in feeling ashamed that he let his frustration get the better of him.

Bogomil continued to address the Agent, “In Beverly Hills we go strictly by the book. Now, why didn’t you inform us when you came into town?”  
“I am on vacation.” Bogomil was someone Illya would have to watch his step with but he would stick with his story.  
“Well if you’re on vacation, what business did you have in Viktor Maitland’s office?”  
The Agent shrugged, “I had to use the facilities. I was walking by and I stopped in.”  
“You always take your gun on vacation?”  
“I don’t know. I have never been on vacation before.” Seeing Bogomil growl at his sarcasm, he switched to the official policy. “U.N.C.L.E. agents are required to carry their weapon at all times.”  
“Well if you want to carry your gun, I suggest you go back to New York.” 

Then Bogomil smiled, “As a matter of fact, I just got off the phone with an Agent Napoleon Solo, Chief Enforcement Officer for New York U.N.C.L.E. Does that name ring a bell?”  
Kuryakin winced and sunk in his chair. “Yes, I seem to recall the name.”  
Bogomil nodded. “He tells me you may not be very welcome back there. He says you’re an outstanding agent.”  
Illya brightened at that.  
“I find that very difficult to believe. He also says you have come close to reprimand several times for insubordination in the past. I find that very easy to believe.”  
Illya thought darkly, he would have to find a way to thank Napoleon personally.  


“Now. What are you doing in Beverly Hills?”  
“As I said I am on vacation. I went in to use the facilities and the next thing I knew six thugs threw me out of a window.”  
The Lieutenant watched the agent for a moment, “Your Mr. Solo gave me a message for you. Do you want to hear it?”  
“Not particularly.” Illya muttered.  


“He says if you’re out here investigating the Petrovsky murder, you needn’t bother coming back. He tells me that if we inform him that you are working on this case, he will have to go to your Section One superior who will have you brought up on charges and removed from your position.”  
Illya knew Napoleon could be angry but this was carrying things too far.  
“Now one last time, what are you doing ….”  
“I am on vacation!” the agent interrupted in frustration.  
“Vacation!” Bogomil echoed in frustration. He had never met a more stubborn, pig headed, son-of-a-bitch in all his days in service. He took a deep breath, almost understanding Taggart’s actions. “Detective Rosewood, take Mr. Kuryakin over to the courthouse and let him arrange for bail.”  


“Would you follow me sir?”  
Kuryakin rose slowly, “That was an excellent punch, Sargent.” He followed Rosewood over to the glass door and paused, “After you.”  
But even Rosewood was not easily taken in, “No, sir, after you.”  
“Your courtesy is exemplary Detective.”  


The Lieutenant and Sergeant shared a moment as they heard Kuryakin ask Rosewood, “However, explain this word ‘twerp’ to me….”

********

“Thank you for bailing me out, Ally.”  
“You know, if I had known why you were arrested, I wouldn’t have come!” It was after 9:00 at night as they both walked to Ally’s car.  
Illya grinned, “You don’t mean that.”  
Ally, seeing the grin she remembered so well, she softened. “No, I don’t mean that. But Illya, if it weren’t for Viktor Maitland, I would still be working in that factory back in Russia.”  
Illya could see her point. For this and other reasons he thought he should explain. “Listen. When Misha came to my apartment in New York, he had with him a sack of German Bearer Bonds. I think he stole them and whoever he stole them from had him killed. I mentioned Misha’s name to Maitland and that is when he had me thrown out. The reference to Misha definitely triggered a strong reaction with your boss.”  
“Illya, look at you. You dress like a criminal. You go barging into his office without an appointment, you’re carrying a gun; what do you expect? If you barged into my office and I didn’t know you, I’d throw you out.”  


Looking down at his clothes, Illya was surprised. Napoleon always teased him about his clothes choices but he never took it seriously. “I dress like a criminal? What is wrong with the way I look?” Ally saw he looked hurt.  
“Illya admit it. You have never had much taste in clothes. When was the last time you went shopping?” But Illya stopped listening as he watched Ally get into an expensive candy red convertible Mercedes. “Is this your car?”  
“Oh no. In Beverly Hills we just take which ever car is closest.”  
Ally giggled as she saw Illya pause as he thought this over. He wouldn’t be surprised in this town.

********

They were soon driving down the streets of Beverly Hills heading back to Illya’s hotel.  
“I remember you used to live in that shabby small apartment in Moscow with very little furniture. All you had were books. Where do you live now?”  
Illya chuckled, a little embarrassed, “Different city but the same shabby apartment and the same books.” Ally laughed. He asked “Do you think it is too late for me to change?”  
“Yeah, I do.” 

“Illya, why were you bothering Viktor? I mean you don’t really think he had anything to do with Misha getting killed, do you?”  
Illya, scanning the traffic, said “The thought never crossed my mind.”  
Ally scolded her overly suspicious friend, “Illya, Viktor Maitland is one of the top art dealers in the United States.”  
“Hmmm…”  
She hated it when he got all mysterious on her. “He is known all over Europe. He has been for over 10 years.”  
“I am impressed.” Illya said absently as he checked the passenger mirror showing the traffic behind them.  
“What are you looking at back there?”  
“The police. They are following us.”  
“What?” Ally yelped, suddenly worried. “Where?”  
“In back of us, on the right. A beige Ford.” Ally’s heart raced yet Illya seemed unconcerned as he actually slipped down in his seat for a quick nap.

Ally pulled up in front of the Beverly Hills Palms. As the valet with the top hat came up to them, the Ford passed and made a U-turn, parking across the street.  
Illya took Ally inside and showed her into the private Suite that they had given him. “What do you think of this place?”  
Ally was in shock. Even for Beverly Hills the room was over the top. Instrument panel controls for lighting, sound, and video. Several lavish rooms and a large marble bathroom. “Illya, this is your room? How can you afford this?”  
Illya walked in and headed for the far table. “What? It is no charge.”  
“No charge?! Of course there is a charge.”  
With a German accent, Illya explained, “ _Nein fraulein_. They believe I am rich German, undercover to buy Hotel.”  
“Oh my gosh Illya. And just how did they get that idea?”  
“It is small matter. No sweat.”  


Ally ran through the rooms, checking them out. “Illya, they have the most beautiful individual robes in the bathroom.”  
“Yes, but they all have the name of the hotel on them so they are no good.”  
Ally shook her head fondly at her friend but she couldn’t help her reaction as she watched.  


Illya took out his thick, black rimmed tinted glasses and picked up the phone, a menu in hand. “Illya you can’t still be wearing those glasses! They are for squares.”  
He pointedly ignored her and asked, “Yes, Room Service? This is Suite 1035. I would like to order something from your menu. I would like you to deliver it to a beige Ford that is parked out front of the Hotel on Wilshire. Yes, send down one Bay Shrimp Salad sandwich…” Ally giggled as she listened to the elaborate meal. “Is the cold poached salmon in dill sauce recommended? Excellent, then send that also. And then add something for dessert. Yes, thank you.”  
Both laughed as he hung up the phone. “You’re a good sport, Illya. But please lose the glasses. First thing, I’m taking you shopping. I know where you can get some cool knock-offs for a great price.”  
“Beverly Hills price or Kuryakin price? And … what is a ‘square’?”  
“Don’t sweat it,” Ally giggled as she lounged on the bed, “Just how long are you going to stay?”  
Illya paused, his face became still. “I will stay in town until I find out who killed Misha.”  
Ally looked away. She had almost forgotten the sadness.

“Ally, I am seriously considering going down to the warehouse where he worked and checking it out.”  
“Oh really. And how are you planning on getting there?”  
Illya smiled, looking up through his lashes, the blue eyes most appealing. Ally chuckled. She could always be conned into anything with those fascinating blue eyes. 

Outside, a uniformed waiter hefting a tray of plates up on his shoulder, left the hotel and walked crossed the street to the beige Ford. He set the tray on the driver’s door, “Good evening sir.”  
“What the hell is that?” Taggart barked from the passenger side.  
“Supper sir. Compliments of a guest of the hotel.”  
Rosewood passed a cloth napkin to Taggart, “Kuryakin? But how did he know we were here?”  
“Because I let you drive,” growled Taggart. The waiter passed the plates into the car and Rosewood politely passed them to Taggart.

********

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback and hot tips appreciated


	5. Chapter 5

#### ACT 5: _“It’s an anti-banana disguise.”_

In the lobby, Illya stopped by a slight, shy waiter at the open buffet. “I need a couple of bananas, how much do they cost?  
“Well, the fruit plate is $48.50. You get peaches, plums, oranges, and bananas. And a complimentary glass of Champagne.”  
Bewildered at the price, Illya asked, “All I need is a couple of bananas.”  
The waiter looked at the young man and then looked around. He picked up two of the fruit and shoved them into Illya’s hands. Putting a finger to his lips, the waiter smiled a sweet smile, “Shhhh. Go ahead and take those bananas.”  
Illya grinned back, “Thank you.” 

Outside, Taggart was getting frustrated, “Forget it. I’m not eating that. Take it back!”  
“Certainly sir,” said the waiter.  
“This really looks great!” Rosewood gushed already devouring the sandwich.  
Kuryakin quickly ran across the street and came up behind the beige parked car. Bending down, he began to stuff the bananas into the tail pipe. The waiter saw the motion. As Kuryakin winked at him, the waiter smiled and turned his attention back to the two men inside the car.  
“Can I have some extra mayo?” asked Rosewood.  
“Certainly sir.”  
“Thank you” said Rosewood, nothing if not well-mannered.  
“Oh crap” could be heard grumbled from the passenger side. Rosewood ignored his partner having become used to the familiar ‘oh crap’ used for many occasions. Rosewood munched on happily.

Across the street the valet brought up the red convertible, Ally was waiting outside.  
“Ready to go?” asked Illya as he joined her.  
“Yeah” she answered and they got in.  
Taggart looked over, “There’s the Mercedes. Would you get rid of that stuff?”  
The red convertible pulled away from the curb as Rosewood tried desperately to put the dishes back on the tray.  
Taggart was yelling “Their getting away!” as his partner attempted to put the car in gear. The waiter backed away as the detective’s car started up and moved quickly out into traffic. And then the car had the most difficult time, jerking violently, throwing Taggart back and forth in his seat. The car finally came to a halt in the middle of the road. Oncoming traffic blared their horns in anger.  
“What the hell are you doing?!” yelled Taggart. Rosewood tried to restart the car but the most obnoxious sound came from the engine. Taggart lowered his head to his hands and swore “Oh Crap!”  


********

The red convertible pulled up in front of some dark buildings. “Is this the place?”  
Ally nodded. “Yeah, but I’m still not sure about you doing this.”  
“Don’t worry, I have done this before. Just wait here.” 

“Wait? Not on your life. You’ll probably hurt yourself. I’m coming with you.” Ally got out of the car.  
“No, I cannot let you go with me.”  
“Look Illya. This is my boss, my Gallery, and my warehouse. We do this my way. Besides I have the keys.” Ally dangled the keys up for her friend to see.  
Illya sighed. The keys would make things easier.

She opened the thick main door and watched Illya go to work. She was impressed at the calmness that came over her friend as the professional that she knew he was went to work. She watched him move carefully into the room, his eyes scanning everywhere at once.  
Illya moved deep into the room and over to a side table, messy with papers and trash. He picked up some of the papers and then scooped up some brown dirt that was lying all over the top. Ally watched as he put the grit up to his face to smell. “Did you find something?”  
“Coffee grounds,” Illya said deep in thought.  
“So…”  
“Do you know what this is used for?”  
“Yes. Some people filter hot water through it and drink it.”

Illya’s eyebrows rose not expecting the sarcasm, “Yes, well I will take some to the hotel to use so I don’t have to pay the exorbitant prices in the morning.”  
“The prices aren’t high. They are just Beverly Hills.”  
“Hmmm…” Illya nodded, already walking away.  
“Hmmm… yourself.” Ally chided as she saw her friend going into his evasive mode.  
Caught off guard, Illya chuckled at the imitation of himself.

********

Suddenly they heard a van roll up to the loading gate and turn off the engine. Illya grabbed Ally’s hand and made for cover. He raised his hand to his lips, “Shhhhh.”  
From behind one of the many boxes, they saw two men remove a small crate from the van. They brought the crate inside the warehouse to the small table.  
One of the men began talking, “I want to tell you, I wish you would have been with me last night.”  
“What happened?”  
“Well I stopped at a joint on the way home to have a couple of drinks.”  
“Which one?”  
“The one on Wilkinson.” The crate they carried had the Maitland Gallery logo on it and the men were removing the nails that held down the lid.  
“So this gal sits down a couple of stools away and her face had this kind of tic. I didn’t know if she was trying to put the make on me or what. So, I thought I’d take you over there and let you take a look.” The other man scoffed.  
They had lifted the lid and were removing several bundles of paper. Illya recognized the same certificate markings as Misha’s Bearer Bonds.

“Come on let’s go, I want to get out of here.” They had finished putting the Bonds in a sack and resealed the crate.  
“No way I’m gonna waste my time why you decide to make your move.”  
“Okay come on.”  
“Get your side.” As they returned the crate to the van, Illya ran for the exit door with Ally in pursuit.

Ally tried to catch up outside, “Illya what the hell is going on?”  
“I will tell you later, hurry.” Out in the street, the van turned left at the corner. Illya crossed to the convertible, “Hurry! Give me the keys. I am going to follow them.”  
“Have you ever driven a Mercedes before?” Ally asked out of breath.  
“No but a car is a car.”  
“That does it, I’m driving. I’ve seen you drive.” Ally said with finality and started the car.  
“Oh, that’s cold.” Illya growled, as he ran to the passenger side and jumped in.

********

“A banana in your tail pipe! How could you not notice a man sticking a banana in your tail pipe?!” Bogomil was livid as he walked his two detectives through the control room.  
“Well, he distracted us,” Taggart explained.  
“And how did he do that?”  
“He sent us a late supper sir,” Rosewood explained, trying to be helpful. He smiled at the thoughtfulness, missing his boss’s startled abrupt halt. “See this waiter comes over….”  
“Billy!” Taggart, exasperated, stops his partner.  
Bogomil’s eyebrows rose into his forehead, “A late supper?!” Words almost failed him. He didn’t know what was worse his thick-headed officers or the audacity of one U.N.C.L.E. agent. “And what did you have to eat, Detective Rosewood?”  
The detective frowned, “Ah, I think it was a Shrimp Salad ….. sandwich ….. sir.” Rosewood stopped as he saw Taggart lower his head in humiliation.  
Bogomil shook his head in disgust, “A Shrimp Salad sandwich.”  
“Yes sir.”  
The Lieutenant took a deep breath, in then out. “I want you two to go back to the hotel and wait for Kuryakin to show up. And if you lose him again, don’t bother calling in. You got that?!”  
“Yes sir.” “Yes sir.” Shaking his head, the Lieutenant left.

Taggart gave Rosewood a sad look of exasperation, “You had to tell him about the late supper….?”  
Before Rosewood could respond, two other detectives came up to them. “We’ve got something for you, Billy.” One put on a pair of joke-glasses with a banana for a nose. “It’s an anti-banana disguise.” He took them off and put them in Rosewood’s pocket, “They may come in handy.” The other officer added “A little extra protection.”  
Taggart growled, “Very funny.”  
He turned back to Rosewood and sighed. It was going to be a long night. “Come on, Billy. Let’s go.”

********

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As before, comments and hot tips are always appreciated.


	6. Chapter 6

#### ACT 6: _“I am not a bloody machine.”_

Ally and Illya followed the van to a building all lit up in the night. “Why don’t you take the car and go home.”  
Ally frowned, “Well what about you?”  
Illya ignored the question while he watched as the same two men from Ally’s warehouse again removed the crate and took it into the building. Getting out of the car he added distractedly, “Time for you to go home, Ally.”  
“There’s no need, Illya. I can tell you what this place is. It’s a bonded warehouse. They hold up all foreign shipments here until they clear customs.”  
Illya turned to the girl and glared, “You will take the car and go home, Alevtina Makarova.”  
“Damn it, Illya. I’m not going to bail you out again.”  
Illya fake smiled, “Go home.”

Illya watched as the two men set down their crate and a third man put it on a dolly. Needing to get closer, Illya climbed the chain-link fence into the Restricted Area.  
He watched as the third man with the dolly took the crate into the highly secure area called ‘Customs Bond.’ The man set the crate down and all the men left.

Just then a Security Guard stepped out from between the rows of stored crates and stopped. The guard froze when he saw the blonde stranger.  
Seeing the guard, Kuryakin instantly transformed into another persona; _the insufferable official_. Standing stiffly erect, shoulders back, stance bold, he called out with pinched stuffiness, “You there, my good man. Come here for a moment – quickly I don’t have all day.” His accent took on a nasal British overtone with a dash of snobbish bad manners as he thought that would lend to that officious flair he was so fond of. A British accent would work here where a Russian one most definitely would not.  
Surprised at the officious manner and the far-from-a-threat demeanor, the Guard warily moved closer to the slim blonde.  
“I beg your pardon but would you be so kind as to hand me a match?”  
Surprised at the request, the guard responded, “Err, there’s no smoking in here.”  
“Obviously. I will smoke outside. Now if I must repeat myself, kindly hand me a match.”  
Reluctantly he handed over a small book of matches. 

“Finally,” Illya grieved as he took the matches. He casually retrieved his black framed eye glasses from his inside coat pocket and began to polish the lenses. “I say, is your supervisor about?”  
“Yeah, he’s in the office.”  
Seeming to think this over, the stranger calmly set his glasses onto his face and peered at the guard, “Be a good chap and retrieve him for me, will you? Right now would be most suitable.”  
The guard was getting a little stressed, “Say, what’s the problem?”  
“I see you are security here?”  
“Yeah. So what?”  
Illya pulled out his wallet with his U.N.C.L.E. badge and flashed it. His voice, his tone changed and commanded attention. For amusement he decided to keep the English accent. “You, my good man, are the problem. Bring your supervisor to me. Immediately!” The guard was startled as the man before him became cold and officious. He took little note of the identification shoved in his face but he knew the tone of authority when he heard it.  
The guard moved quickly. The quiet, hard voice of the official scared the hell out of him. As the guard turned in haste, he missed the stranger’s lips curl in glee.

********

Taggart walked out of the Beverly Hills Palms and approached Rosewood sitting in their car. “He hasn’t come back yet.” Taggart sat back in the passenger seat and got comfortable.  
“What do we do now?” Rosewood asked.  
Taggart leaned back and closed his tired eyes, “We wait.”  
Rosewood nodded not wishing to irritate his partner any further. 

********

A young man in shirt sleeves walked up to Kuryakin with the Security Guard trailing behind. Kuryakin quickly sized him up as overworked, stuck on the rotten midnight shift, and loaded down with too much responsibility.  
“Can I help you?” the young voice asked not ready to give any respect yet.  
Kuryakin took his time looking up from reading the label on one of the crates. When he did, the effect of the cold blue eyes and clipped tone was not lost on the new man. “You there. Are you the supervisor for this station?”  
“Yes, who are you?” he replied a bit wary.  
“I am Inspector Rafferty, International Customs Service, clearly.” Kuryakin flashed his U.N.C.L.E. badge again, too quickly and too far away for the man to get a good look at it.  
Kuryakin then waved to the crates around him, “Have all these crates passed through Customs yet?”  
“No. This is the Bonded Area.”  
“Then kindly explain my dilemma. Please answer a question for me. How can a stranger, a foreigner, dressed like myself, just walk into your warehouse? How can I just walk into the restricted Bonded Area and start looking around without anyone asking me any questions whatsoever.” The cold eyes settled on the supervisor.  
The man was clearly startled, “Well … I don’t know.”  
“Thank you. That is just the answer I was looking for,” the Inspector scoffed sarcastically.

Kuryakin shook his head, stepped forward, and ripped off each man’s ID badge. “You have real trouble here, gentlemen. I will take your ID numbers and make note of them in my report.” Taking their ID’s along with the threat of a report only added to the nervous tension building up in the men. _I have them both now in my control_ , thought Kuryakin barely hiding his evil grin at the power he wielded.  
“By Jove, someone will lose their position over this. I will demand it!” Kuryakin said as he walked away. Pointing back to the guard, he added “This man, in a restricted No Smoking Zone, gave me a match, for bloody sake.”  
The supervisor gasped, turning to the guard. “You gave him a match?”  
The guard shrugged in apology.

Kuryakin suddenly turned back around facing the men, “Listen to me. I do security investigations all over the world. And with the exception of Cleveland, this establishment has the worst security in the United States.”  
The supervisor was quickly trying to think of a way to blame things on the day supervisor as this Inspector looked like he was hunting for prey.  
“Now I suggest you both call your wives, because we will be here all night. We are going to check the background of each and every crate in this section starting with this one, right here.” He slammed his hand on the Maitland Gallery crate.

********

“Wow,” Rosewood gasped. He and Taggart were still staking out the hotel waiting for Kuryakin. Their only luxury – cups of stale coffee from the drug store around the corner and a magazine Rosewood had picked up.  
“You know it says right here that by the time the average American reaches 50, he’s got five pounds of undigested red meat in his bowels.”  
Taggart frowned as he scanned the street. This had already been a long exhausting day, and had all the appearance of being an even longer night. “Why are you telling me this? What makes you think I have any interest in that at all?”  
Rosewood looked at his partner with concern, “Well I care about you and you eat a lot of red meat.”  
Taggart clunked his head against the side window. 

********

The poor young supervisor was in the main file room directing his staff. “Now, the Inspector needs all the information on those Air-Way bills ….”  
“Include all the manifests also,” put in Kuryakin, pushing his glasses up on his nose as he scanned several invoices.  
“That’s right,” agreed the supervisor eagerly. “And he needs the records of all shipments due into the same destination.” Three other clerks were busily grabbing the information from separate file cabinets.  
“What’s this all about” whispered one of the young clerks to his boss.  
“Just do it” said the worried supervisor, his mind racing on whether he would be able to keep his classification when the Inspector made out his report.

A short, sour-faced clerk ventured, “Say, you got some kind of warrant for this?”  
All sound in the office stopped. The supervisor closed his eyes. Everyone held their breath.  
Kuryakin turned slowly to the young clerk, his considerable intensity focused on the one small man. “And precisely who ... are ... you?” Illya moved slowly closer, the killer countenance settling on his face. The quiet of the inspector taking on a dangerous tension. “You seem familiar. What are you hiding from me?”  
With a quiet pause – more like deadly calm, Kuryakin slowly came into the personal space of the lowly clerk. “Yes, you may require further investigation. Or possibly an investigation by your American Internal Revenue Service. Did I see your new Porsche parked outside?”  
Seeing the poor man quake, Kuryakin turned away to take in the whole room raising his voice. “I want you to know, I want all of you to know, that I can have 25 agents down here within the hour. They will march in here and confiscate your Bond from underneath you and you people will be out of business permanently if I don’t receive cooperation. Is that perfectly understood, gentlemen?”  
“Don’t get upset, Inspector” the young supervisor placated the official, anxious to calm him down. “We’ll give you everything you need. Right guys?”  
The room exploded with cooperation. “Everything you need,” agreed the guard.  
The sour-faced clerk put in, “That’s not my Porsche, no sir. I don’t know whose it is!”  
“Fine,” Kuryakin frowned. “Now, spit spot. Everyone back to your tasks.”  
Turning back to his now growing pile of papers, Kuryakin grumbled, “I don’t know what you all think I am. I am not a bloody machine, you know. _Tsk, tsk_. People often mistake me for an unforgiving and vengeful man,” the misunderstood Inspector shook his head. “Ah well. My efforts are never appreciated.” 

********

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a thought, a comment or passing observation would not be amiss.


	7. Chapter 7

#### ACT 7: _“I am trying to figure you all out.”_

The Beverly Hills detectives were still sitting in the Ford outside Kuryakin’s hotel, waiting for his return. Taggart was just finishing the last of his terrible, long cold, coffee.  
Rosewood felt he just had to speak up. “I notice you’ve been drinking a lot of coffee lately.”  
Stake-out duty was never good, but with Rosewood, Taggart suffered a great deal. He turned to his partner with pain in his eyes. Rosewood continued, “Well I think that is why you have a hard time relaxing.”  
Taggart turned his eyes back to watching the streets, letting out a heavy sigh.

Kuryakin was dropped off by a taxi a block from the hotel, as was his habit so that he could check out the immediate area. As he was walking back, he noticed the two detectives sitting in their car. Crouching, the Russian crept up from behind and, choosing Rosewood’s side, he jumped into the back seat.  
“Do you have any food back here?”  
“Oh CRAP!” Both detectives spilled their coffee in shock and surprise. Curses were in abundance at Kuryakin’s sudden appearance.  
“Gosh, you almost gave me a heart attack,” gasped Rosewood. Taggart had yet to speak, his breathing came in fast, shallow wheezes, his gun half out of its holster.  
“What are you both doing here so late?!” Kuryakin asked as he rummaged around the back seat for any food possibilities.  
Rosewood answered for his partner. “For Heaven’s sake! We were ordered to keep an eye on you.”  
Kuryakin ignored the anger, “And you’re doing a fine job.” Ah, he found a candy bar called Butterfingers. Hmmm.  
“You’re a cocky son-of-a-bitch, aren’t you!” Taggart seemed to have found his voice. “Thanks to you, we’re now the joke of the department because of that tail-pipe thing.” He angerly shoved his pistol back into its holster.  
Kuryakin shrugged, “I am sorry about the banana. I just needed time to myself.”  
“Yeah, very funny. The Lieutenant docked us two days pay.”  
_“Bozhe moi!”_ Kuryakin looked from one face to the other and saw they were not kidding. He was truly surprised and sorry to hear of this. He hadn’t expected the retribution to be so harsh. As he continued to take bites out of the candy bar he, of all people, knew the value of a pay-packet.  
“By the way, thanks for the sandwich” Rosewood said.  
“He meant it as a joke, Billy. Like the bananas” growled Taggart.  
The agent spoke between bites, “I beg your pardon Sargent but I also am a fellow enforcement officer. I know what it is like to be on stake-out duty. My partner and I have been on enough of them. When I sent that food down, it was with my compliments Detective Rosewood.”  
“Bull shit” grumbled Taggart.

Kuryakin tried another tack. He truly did not mean these men ill will; he just needed to keep them distracted so that he could complete his mission. “Look we have all had a rough day. I know of a dinner nearby and I am hungry. Would you both care to join me?”  
“Forget it,” said Taggart, turning his back on the agent.  
But Kuryakin could not be out done in the stubborn department. “Fine. I am going to get something to eat. You both can try to follow me if you want to but I already lost you once and I assure you I can do it again. It just seems simpler that we go together.”  
The two detectives looked at each other.  
“Oh crap. Okay we’ll go but we don’t drink on duty,” Taggart said, but his jaw was not nearly as tight as it was, Kuryakin noticed.  
“And none of that Vodka stuff” added the Sargent.  
“Fine, do what you will,” said Kuryakin. “Detective Rosewood do you know where the Interstate joins Belmont? I was told it is the perfect place. They serve Russian food. Very conservative.”  
Taggart caught the innocent look. He’d seen it before on this cagey agent’s face.

********

Taggart, Rosewood, and Kuryakin found themselves in a club Solo would have been fond of. Kuryakin hadn’t realized the floor show was topless dancing girls but he still thought the detectives would enjoy themselves. Rosewood seemed to but Taggart was holding back. Kuryakin found most Americans could be very provincial.  
“Kuryakin, just where did you hear about this place?”  
The Russian was noticing a waitress carrying plates piled with food and easily lightened her load by removing a plate with a healthy portion. “A man that I met while relaxing in your jail.”  
Taggart rolled his eyes as they selected a table and Kuryakin didn’t hesitate to dig in. Possibly goulash, he thought. “This is very good. You will like this I’m sure.”  
“We’re fine.” Taggart answered before Rosewood could muddy the water.

One of the girls playfully wrapped her feather boa around Taggart’s neck. He frowned and took it off. Rosewood was actually charmed.  
A cute waitress in skimpy shorts and top came up to their table. “Hi there. Can I get you guys something?”  
Seeing the blonde cutie was already actively addressing his food, she turned to the other two. “And what can I get for you two?”  
Taggart spoke up for both of them, “Two club sodas.”  
The waitress paused, shocked, then mumbled “Groovy,” and wandered off.  
Kuryakin made a face. Even when he was not drinking, he would never drink club soda. _“Idiota kusok.”_  
For the first time, Taggart grinned. Rosewood, not having been in many clubs before, was enthralled with the action.

“Sgt. Taggart look at this.” Kuryakin took out a packet of dark coffee grounds. “I found this at Maitland’s warehouse.”  
The older detective opened the packet and carefully inspected it.  
“What do you think?” Kuryakin asked.  
“Coffee grounds, so what?” Taggart said.  
Kuryakin rolled his eyes. “You do not get out much do you?”

As the waitress delivered the drinks on the table, Kuryakin scanned the room as was his nature. He saw two men come into the club dressed in long trench coats. They stopped at the door, seemed to hesitate, and then entered only to split up. One went to the right to the bar and one went to the left by the disc jockey. When they got to a certain point, they turned to watch the crowd – not the girls. That’s interesting, he thought.  
Kuryakin looked over to the older cop. “Sgt. Taggart. See that man over there in the black coat?”  
Taggart turned casually, “Yeah?”  
“It is June. In Southern California. Do you not think it is a little too hot for a long black trench coat?”  
“Could be,” Taggart hedged, but he was thinking and he watched Kuryakin with interest.  
“His partner is over on the other side. They came in together.”  
The detective looked at both men, seeing the irregularity.

“This is trouble. I feel it,” Kuryakin said, his eyes holding Taggart’s. The detective tipped his head, watching. Whatever he thought of this cocky spy, he had come to respect his expertise. And a cop respected another cop’s intuition. Taggart nodded agreement.

“Why don’t you go over to the bar and cover that one for me, yes? I will take the other man.”  
Rosewood finally woke up to a change in his two table-mates. His partner and the U.N.C.L.E. agent seemed to be making plans. Taggart was watching the agent as if he was trying to make up his mind about something.  
Kuryakin urged in a whisper, “You will do this?” As he saw Taggart still hesitate, he added, “No … bull shit this time.”  
“Will someone please tell me what’s going on?” asked Rosewood eyeing them both.  
Kuryakin didn’t flinch under Taggart’s scrutiny. The older man, when it came down to it, saw only truth in the steady blue eyes. Taggart nodded again.  
“Just sit tight, Billy.” Taggart slowly rose and wandered over to lean against the bar near the second man. Kuryakin waited until the detective was in position. As soon as he was, Kuryakin stood and turned to the other man in the trench coat. 

Kuryakin’s walk became stumbled and weaving. His speech became slurred like a drunk as he yelled across the room and could be heard above the music. “Pavel?!”  
The man in the trench coat turned in surprise. “Hey, Pavel. I knew that… that was you! I told my friend that was you. I knew it was you!”  
Slowly Kuryakin made his way closer to the man. He knew he had to get himself close so he would be in position when the men made their move. Having no gun, it would come down to hand-to-hand. He also knew that the suspects had to make the first move.  
But the closer he got the more nervous the trench coat man became. “My friend said that it wasn’t you, but I knew it was. _Moi drug_ , Pavel! Here in America!” he stumbled, knocking over glasses.  
“What? You’re crazy, man.”  
Kuryakin turned his back on the man. “I told you that was Pavel!” he yelled to the back of the room. Turning back, he stumbled almost on top of the man. Quickly the nervous man jumped up and jammed off the music. He pulled out a sawed-off shot gun from under his coat, “Everybody freeze!”  
The other trench coat man also pulled out a shot-gun from his coat – pointing it into the crowd. The room became very still.  
“Pavel?” the drunk, stumbling man gasped, a glazed look on his face.  
Trying to get control, the nervous man yelled back, “Get back to your table! No one else move!”  
“What’s wrong, my friend?” the drunk slurred.  
The nervous man aimed the shot gun inches from Kuryakin’s abdomen. “Get back man,” he gasped.  
“You’ve changed Pavel.”  
The nervous man charged, “If you don’t get back….”  
Kuryakin took that opportunity to grab the gun’s barrel; the shot fire went up into the ceiling. The Russian’s elbow went into the shooter’s face and his body was tossed over and onto the floor.

Taggart ran up to the other man, his Police Special out as he shoved it into his shooter’s face, “Police! Move and I’ll drop you.”  
Kuryakin aimed the shot gun at the man on the floor as Rosewood ran up, his gun finally drawn, yelling, “Beverly Hills Police, don’t move!”  
“Groovy,” sighed Kuryakin as he sat down.  
Rosewood grinned and then put his handcuffs on the bad guy.  
Taggart pulled his man down and said to the customers, “Sorry for the disturbance folks. Everything is under control.” The crowd clapped and cheered. Taggart gave Kuryakin an appraising look and nodded his respect. Kuryakin returned the look.  
“Maybe this was not as conservative a place as I was led to believe.”  
Taggart laughed. “Bull shit.”

********

The three heroes made their way through the police control room to Taggart’s desk. The officers to write up their report and Kuryakin tagging along.  
“Taggart!” The Lieutenant called across the room. “Would you mind explaining to me what you and Rosewood were doing in a bar, outside of our jurisdiction, when you were still on duty?”  
Taggart hesitated, not being experienced in the art of a, if not completely truthful, yet good cover story.  
The Lieutenant turned to the other senior. His mood giving no quarter. “Agent Kuryakin?”  
The agent chose not to use any ‘persona’ from his vast repertoire of characters – this he would play straight. This was reporting to a superior officer.  
“Sir?”  
Bogomil said, “Give me your report, if you would.”  
Kuryakin cleared his throat, “Sir, at approximately 1:42 a.m. I found the team of Sgt. Taggart and Rosewood holding stake-out outside my hotel per your orders. I then proceeded to a nearby restaurant and they followed, on duty of course. I chose the establishment for dinner on a recommendation. I tried the goulash and your two officers each had club soda’s. A singularly distasteful drink, I must say.”  
Bogomil leaned back and crossed his arms, listening.  
Kuryakin took a deep breath and continued. “While seated, your officers observed two suspicious persons with bulges under their jackets enter the establishment. Having probable cause to believe a felony was about to take place, Sgt. Taggart and Detective Rosewood, with myself present only as an observer, proceeded to surround the suspects.”  
Taggart and Rosewood shifted, becoming uneasy as the story progressed. Bogomil made no comment.  
“As we now know, these two suspects attempted to commit robbery and assault with deadly weapons, sir. However, that attempt was foiled before it could begin with no injuries nor damage at the establishment. That’s all.”  
Bogomil paused, his eyebrows up. He slowly looked at each man. His eyes settled on Taggart. “Sgt. Taggart. Is this what really happened?”  
Slowly Taggart raised his head to glance at his boss. His face looked as if he was in pain. “No sir,” he said softly. Rosewood looked miserable. Kuryakin frowned. “That’s not exactly what happened.”  
“Then would you like to tell me what really happened?”  
The men moved into the nearby conference room and sat down. Kuryakin, arms crossed, stood away from them, leaning against the wall, ill-at-ease.

Taggart spoke up, “Well Kuryakin invited us to this club for a meal and we accepted, as he said.”  
“And we only ordered club soda sir,” Rosewood was quick to add.  
“That’s right. While we were there, Kuryakin observed the two suspects casing the club. He pointed out what was going to happen and he came up with a plan to overtake the perps. Before we knew what was going on, he had already disarmed one of them.” Kuryakin frowned looking at the floor as Taggart nodded to him, “Agent Kuryakin deserves all the credit for the arrest sir.”

“Agent Kuryakin.” The agent raised his eyes, if not his head, in response. The innocent look again. It had worked most of the time to get him out of trouble.  
Bogomil stood and approached the agent, “Trouble does seem to follow you,” he said. “And while I appreciate your assistance, this kind of trouble reflects badly on my department and the image we have maintained here in Beverly Hills. In the future, if you want to practice law enforcement, I would prefer that you didn’t do it in my town.”

“I understand sir and I do apologize. But before I go, Sgt. Taggart and Rosewood, I just want you two to know something. The first story was working. It would have been good for you. Maybe a promotion and you just sabotaged it. This I do not understand. Facts are a series of events to be reported in a variable pattern to support a specific outcome.”  
Bogomil had a hard time swallowing a smile as Kuryakin pushed himself away from the wall and turned to the door. “You just gave up on a perfectly good version of the facts. I went to a lot of trouble to give you credit. I am trying to figure you all out. I haven’t yet but I will though. Once again, my efforts go unappreciated.”  
The door closed behind the agent. 

Sobering, Bogomil turned to Taggart and Rosewood, “As of now, you two officers are off the case.” The Lieutenant beckoned to two other detectives waiting outside. “Foster, McCabe. Your turn. Don’t lose him.”  
The two new men rose with cocky grins on their faces. “Not a chance sir,” said Foster with confidence.  
Bogomil turned back to a grim Taggart and Rosewood, “And you two, in my office.” With fuming looks at the new team, the old team followed their boss into his office. 

********


	8. Chapter 8

#### ACT 8: _“Well, I do hope I haven’t disturbed you too much.”_

That morning the new team of Foster and McCabe were staked out in front of The Beverly Hills Palms. One of the uniformed Hotel Security men came out front with his violation book ready and approached the unmarked detective’s car.  
“Good morning Gentlemen. This is a ‘No Parking’ area. Please remove your vehicle.”  
The two officers were unprepared for this Kuryakin style of distraction. “What’s this?”  
“Yes sir. This is a ‘No Parking’ area. Please move your vehicle or I will have to write up a violation. Thank you and have a nice day.” The man smiled and waited.  
“What are you talking about? We’re the police!” Foster was flustered at this unexpected situation.  
“Yes sir. Well then, I’ll have to take down your names and badge numbers. You see when a call comes down from the desk that there is a complaint from a client of the hotel – Security responds.”  
The Security guard walked in front of the car and began to take down the license number blocking the view. McCabe leaned out the window to yell while Foster opened his door to speak with this blockhead. 

Kuryakin came out and got into his rental VW Bug, taking off down the street. The little car seemed to take corners rather well as it picked up speed, Illya was pleased to note.  
“There he is! Move it! Move it!” called McCabe, they almost missed him. Security jumped out of the way, pleased to see this disturbance leave the property. Foster hurriedly climbed back in and the officers took off in pursuit.

Foster and McCabe finally caught up with Kuryakin, finding him parked in a lavish neighborhood deep in a pricey district of Beverly Hills. The U.N.C.L.E. agent was in casual jeans, a light blue open neck polo, and his new ‘Hello Beach’ sun visor. The officers, by contrast, were in suit and tie.  
Kuryakin was standing, watching outside the gate of a particularly upscale estate. Disappointed, he saw the new set of officers walk up to him. “Good morning officers. Are you the backup team?”  
McCabe scoffed, “We’re the _first_ team. Bogomil sent in his best.”  
The other one added, “I’m Foster and he’s McCabe. Remember the names. You will soon find you can’t pull your stupid tricks with us. We’re not going to fall for the ‘banana in the tail pipe’ routine.”  
Kuryakin folded his arms, one eyebrow raised. He was feeling grumpy and he missed his regular guys. He’d taken down lowly Survivor School recruits with less to go on.  
“Foster, you are trying too hard. You are using a cultivated Ivy League accent that is clearly not your natural intonation. If I had to guess I would say somewhere outside Boston, more urban, one of the boroughs perhaps.”  
Foster took a step back, surprised.  
“And McCabe you are clearly overdressed, probably to compensate for less privileged beginnings. You are hoping the clothes will get you a promotion but my hunch is Bogomil is not buying it.” Kuryakin smiled to take the sting out of the words but he saw by the angry faces of the two officers that he was right on target. He also saw that they had lost some of their smugness.  
“So, you are going to try to keep up with me today?”  
“No problem,” shrugged Foster, still trying for the bravado. “They day we can’t keep up with some so-called Russian spy, is the day I’ll turn in my badge!”  
Kuryakin gave him a slow look over. “Careful what you wish for, Foster.” The quiet tone gave Foster pause.

McCabe walked over to the gate, “Isn’t this Viktor Maitland’s house?”  
“It is possible.”  
Kuryakin walked back to his car and opened the front hood. He had already been surprised to discover the trunk in the back held the engine. Foster looked in to see a portable cooler stuffed with food, several quarts of water, and quite a few Butterfingers. “For a man who claims to be on vacation, you look a lot like you’re on a stake out.”  
“Stake out? No, I am on the Celebrity Home Tour. I believe that is Doris Day’s house over there. I can’t wait to see my first movie star.” Kuryakin turned at a sound. He saw the gates to Maitland’s estate open and a dark limo pull out.  
The officers noticed Kuryakin’s look and turned also.

“Well it was pleasant talking to you both,” Kuryakin hurriedly closed the hood, “but I have to take in some of the other sights of your beautiful city. Maybe Disneyland next. Excuse me.” He quickly jumped into his car to follow the black Mercedes.  
Caught off guard, the two officers rushed back to their car and pursued the bright yellow Bug. 

All three vehicles pulled up to a red light; the limo, Kuryakin, and the detectives. The light turned green and the limo moved forward. Foster looked at McCabe as Kuryakin’s Bug stayed in place. Both officers got uneasy as cars were lining up behind them, honking for the lead car to move forward with the light. “What in the hell is he doing?”  
As soon as the light turned red, Kuryakin sped out into traffic. He bet on the slight fraction of a second hesitation of oncoming traffic to make it across the intersection – easily done with the tiny Bug. Unfortunately, as Foster also tried to cross, much of the cross traffic was already moving forward. The police had to swerve to miss several cars in front of them. Caught amid many angry motorists, Foster and McCabe watched the rental car disappear.  
Kuryakin grinned in satisfaction.

********

The polished black limo pulled into the driveway of an exclusive club – _‘Members Only’_. Old world Spanish villa style, immaculate landscaping, very private. Kuryakin watched as Maitland and Zack went inside just as the limo pulled away.

The small yellow VW pulled up to the valet and Illya jumped out, “Please put my Bug in a good spot. It is a rental and I didn’t purchase the insurance.”  
The valet looked down at the quarter in tip the man had left him and then turned to the bright yellow box of a car. “No sweat.”

Kuryakin needed to keep up the pressure. He had discovered a great deal but it was only circumstantial. He hadn’t been able to track Maitland’s history beyond 10 years and he still lacked an actual link between Maitland and Misha’s death. Time was running out and he needed to push Maitland enough to make a mistake. 

Inside, the lobby was very upscale, and Kuryakin was clearly under-dressed in his jeans. He wandered through a few rooms and saw Maitland sitting down for lunch with a room full of customers.  
A formal and stiff matra’d called over from his receptionist desk to ask, “May I help you…sir?” The last word seemed to be forced out of the pinched, scornful mouth of the host.

Noting the stern force that guarded the entrance, Kuryakin easily slipped into another persona. Remembering Serrje, he added the crazy accent and put his hands on his hips.  
“Jes. I’m looking for Vik-tor Mait-land.”  
“Ah, I see. You do realize that this is a member’s only club.”  
Illya came in close and flashed those baby blues up at the gentleman. “Mmmm. But I haf to talk to Vik-tor. A message. It is very impour-tant.”  
“Are you sure it’s _Mr._ Maitland you require?”  
“Oh jes. Vik-tor Mait-land. That grey haired gentleman. Tan. Capricorn. Yes Vik-tor.” The blue eyes fluttered and he heard the host’s breathing change.

“Ah, well. Then you will give _me_ the message and I will see that Mr. Maitland receives it.” The host’s face seemed to be pinched up so tight that with every sentence at least one word had to be forced out of him.  
“Jes, I guess I can do that.” Illya moved closer and licked his lips. “My name it is Serrje.” The exaggerated hand gestures made the persona complete. “Tell Vik-tor that Ramon, the man that he met about a week ago? Tell him that Ramon went to the clinic today and found he has …. Well I jus think Vik-tor needs to go check his self out by his doctor as soon as possible before something falls off.” Illya finished with his chin in his hand and his elbow on the reception podium – definitely invading space.  
The Matra’d paused. He was clearly uncomfortable with the information he had just been given and definitely affected by the closeness. Interestingly he didn’t seem to have any trouble understanding Serrje’s accent.

The Host stared, blinking, at a loss. “Ah, I see. Perhaps it is best for you to relay the information to Mr. Maitland directly.”  
Kuryakin paused, looked around at interested bystanders and mused, “You know, I think that would be best.”  
“So do I. By the way, I’m free this afternoon after my shift.”  
Kuryakin rolled his eyes. 

“Viktor Maitland.” The man seated before his lunch was certainly surprised to see Kuryakin. The same thug, Zack Beridze, was sitting beside him. “As you can see, I have returned.”  
Maitland leaned back in his chair with a heavy sigh. With a look from Maitland, Zack rose and approached Kuryakin.  
“I would caution you not to try” the cold eyes warned the thug.  
“Why don’t you get the hell out of here, cousin?”  
“Your cousin? To a twerp like you? Hardly.”

Zack tried a punch at Kuryakin’s face but before he made contact, his fist was captured by his wrist and his forward motion was re-enforced until the thug found himself sailing over the Russian’s shoulder into the tables behind him.  
Zack rose, red faced, but was stopped by a look from Maitland.

“Just who are you?”  
“My name is Kuryakin.”  
“I see. Now just what do you want Mr. Kuryakin?”  
“To talk. Last time we met I did not get the chance.” Now Kuryakin spoke in Russian. All gloves were off.  
Maitland looked uneasy at the change in language, but he replied in Russian. “I have nothing to say to you.”  
“That’s fine. I will do the talking.” Taking control Kuryakin pulled out a chair and sat down.

“This is a very pleasant place, Viktor.” Giving a brief look around, Kuryakin looked relaxed and at ease.  
“I’m glad you like it. I must make you a member.”  
“Don’t bother. My business here is almost concluded.”  
Maitland’s face twitched at that piece of news. The man before him was quite young but his instincts warned him that the mind behind the cold eyes could be ruthless and dangerous. “Who are you with Mr. Kuryakin? My guess is not currently KGB or GRU, I would have heard. Might you be an independent? Or were you hired?”  
Kuryakin smiled without it reaching his eyes. Maitland as much as admitted a current connection with Soviet Intelligence. That was interesting. However, his connections must not be within the Beverly Hills Police Department or he would know of his name already and his U.N.C.L.E. connection.  
He ignored Maitland’s questions, “You have an interesting accent. I am somewhat of an expert. I would say Latvia or Georgian originally but trying very hard to be Russian.”  
Maitland’s face turned very hard making Kuryakin chuckle at getting it right. To some it was a status symbol to claim one was Russian instead of one of the secondary satellites. Like it was to be known as living in Beverly Hills instead of Los Angeles.

Then Maitland saw a change come over Kuryakin. No more playing, he had become like ice. Kuryakin’s words were powerful in their intensity, he leaned forward. “I know that you are into a lot of criminal activity, Viktor. Drugs, Art, German Bonds.” Maitland’s eyes narrowed as this specific information came too close to the mark. “And I have a pretty good idea that you had Mikhail Aleksandr killed. Soon I will have enough evidence and you will go down for the murder.”

“Is that so. Now listen to me, my tough little Russian friend. I don’t know from under what little stone you crawled, or where you get these ridiculous ideas about me. But it seems painfully obvious that you haven’t the slightest fucking idea who you’re dealing with. Now my advice to you is, crawl back under your little rock in New York City or wherever you came from before you get squashed. Do you hear me?”

Two clean cut Beverly Hills Police Officers came into the room and headed directly towards Kuryakin. “Please step away from the table, sir.”  
“It seems you require others to do what you cannot do for yourself,” Kuryakin said quietly as he stood. Maitland’s fists clenched at the insult.  
The two Russians locked eyes as the police handcuffed Kuryakin’s hands behind his back. “I will be back for you, Viktor,” Kuryakin continued in Russian.  
“I think not.” Maitland answered with an uncaring look on his face. But he saw Kuryakin’s eyes were deadly quiet. He had seen this look many times in the old country, from the assassins of the KGB. They did not stop. These men operated under their own code. This man was going to be trouble and one he would need to take care of personally.  
Zack watched the blonde escorted out of the room, every inch of him wanting a few minutes alone with the man to pay him back.

********

Kuryakin was escorted once again through the Police Station Control Room on the way to the Detective Office. Walking through the glass door he came first upon Foster and McCabe – he barely acknowledged their existence. Both men frowned as the U.N.C.L.E. agent walked by; they were still smarting from the complaint lodged by the hotel.  
Rosewood came up to say hello and with his key removed the handcuffs. Taggart, not far behind, released the escort officer with a wave.  
Bogomil spotted his trouble-maker and came out to greet him personally.

“Agent Kuryakin. This is becoming very irritating. Why are you bothering Viktor Maitland?”  
Deciding to trust, Kuryakin leaned back on a desk and crossed his arms. He had thought long and hard about his options on the way over. He finally had to admit he was in desperate need of more resources. “I had a friend named Mikhail Aleksandr Petrovsky who used to work for Viktor Maitland. Maitland had him killed. I cannot prove it right now but when I do, you’ll be the first to know.”  
The Lieutenant looked around at his detectives for a minute and then said, “Forget what you can prove, talk to me.” Bogomil leaned against a desk across from the agent.  
“Very good, listen. Everyone believes that Viktor Maitland is a highly respected art dealer who deals in international acquisitions. The perfect camouflage, no? But I have done some research and art is not the only thing that he deals in. I went to his warehouse and I observed two men unloading a crate that was filled with German Bearer Bonds, untraceable and each worth ten thousand U.S. dollars on the open market. Now my friend, Mikhail Aleksandr, had Bonds exactly like this on him coincidently when he was killed in New York.”  
“Just because Maitland chooses to invest in the same kind of Bonds your friend had doesn’t necessarily mean he’s a killer.”  
“The man is not an investor. The crate that I saw did not even pass through Customs. Maitland is paying someone so his men can get their shipments out of Customs before officials can inspect it. They remove their merchandise and then return the crate. He smuggled them into the United States from the Soviet Union. I have several resources there, and they have had this operation under suspicion for some time. None of their records on Victor Maitland go back more than a few years when he suddenly appeared on the international scene.” Bogomil stood and paced, deep in thought as Kuryakin continued. “Besides Bonds, Maitland also smuggles drugs into this country in the same way. Maitland’s men get their hands on it and they take the drugs out of the crates. Then, as before, they send the crates back before Customs even knows what is going on.”  
“And you witnessed all this?”  
“I have receipts and Air-Way records. I have evidence of the van used and descriptions and time-tables for the two men observed. Everything except for the actual drugs. But I found coffee grounds at the Maitland warehouse.”  
Bogomil perked up, “Coffee grounds….”  
Taggart turned to Kuryakin, “You said something about that before. What does that mean?”  
Bogomil answered before the agent could, “Drugs are sometimes packed in coffee grounds. The scent throws off the dogs.”  
“Very good Lieutenant. Now, what do we do?”

Bogomil paced again, deep in thought. Finally, he stood in front of the agent.  
“Look Agent Kuryakin, I ……I’m sorry.”  
Rosewood looked quickly at Taggart and shook his head, frustration showing.  
The Lieutenant continued, “I’d really like to help you. If you’d found the drugs, that’s one thing. But if your only evidence is coffee grounds and some receipts, we don’t have enough to get a search warrant.”  
“I know how we can get around that.”  
Bogomil’s face became grim, “We don’t ‘get around’ search warrants in my precinct!”  
The Lieutenant turned to his men, “Taggart.”  
“Yes sir?”  
“I want you to start checking this out. Start with the LA.P.D., then the F.B.I. and then Customs Service…”  
Kuryakin rubbed his face and turned to the supervisor, “Respectfully sir, please do not do this.” The agent took a deep breath, “Lieutenant, Maitland is much smarter than this. He is well connected. If you begin by asking noticeable questions, he will close down and send his shipments to some other location. It will be a waste of time.”  
“Really. With your youth, is that what your extensive experience leads you to believe?”  
Illya replied calmly, “It would not be the first time someone has misinterpreted my age for lack of experience.” Now it was the Lieutenant’s turn to frown. He suspected what the agent said was true.

“Bogomil!” A squat, grumpy old man in a too flashy suit entered the control room quickly drawing all focus to himself. Kuryakin saw the detectives raise themselves almost to attention. Ah, Government. The Chief of Police has arrived.  
The heavy-set man came up to Bogomil and stared at Kuryakin, giving him a once over look that would have made other men uncomfortable. Kuryakin merely stared back.  
“Is this the man?”  
“Yes sir,” replied Bogomil, uncomfortable.  
“Is this the gentleman that crashed through Viktor Maitland’s window? Who disabled an unmarked unit with a banana?”  
“Yes sir.”  
“Who lured Taggart and Rosemount into a gross dereliction of duty at an alcohol serving establishment?”  
“Ummm. It’s Rosewood, sir,” whispered the ever-helpful Rosewood.  
The Chief ignored the comment and starred at Kuryakin. The Lieutenant sighed and answered “Yes sir.”  
“Is this the gentleman who ruined the buffet at the Harrow Club this morning?”  
The detectives were restless and becoming uncomfortable at the Chief’s rising voice. Kuryakin simply stood, his arms folded across his chest, proving he was a patient man. Bogomil answered, “Yes sir.”  
“I suspect you are the pride of your department back in U.N.C.L.E., New York, young man. My stars the incompetence!”  
Kuryakin gave the Chief a small smile.  
Dismissing the agent, the bald man turned his back on Kuryakin and walked away. “Lieutenant I would like to see you in your office.” After one last look to the agent, Bogomil frowned and followed.

Most of the men in the office sighed in relief when they left. “Now that was one of the most absurd interrogations I’ve ever had,” spoke Kuryakin.  
“Keep your voice down, for chris-sake,” Taggart warned.  
“What? Can the man hear me through the wall?”  
“Yes,” replied all the detectives in unison. 

The Lieutenant’s office door slammed opened and the Chief left throwing a withering look at the men standing around.  
Bogomil, with much reluctance, returned to his men.  
“Rosewood,” he said looking Kuryakin straight in the eye. “Take Agent Kuryakin back to his hotel room, watch him pack, and escort him to the city limits.” Rosewood twisted in frustration. “When you get to the city limits, you can give him his gun back and his leave.”

Kuryakin looked down at the floor, shaking his head.  
Watching the agent’s reaction, Bogomil winced but continued his speech. “Mr. Kuryakin. The two charges of Disturbing the Peace have been dropped against you. The Chief says that if you return to the City of Beverly Hills the charges will be reinstated,” Bogomil took in a deep breath, “and you will be prosecuted to the limit of the law.”  
The room became deathly quiet.  
Rosewood was terribly upset, “Sir, may I say something?”  
Slowly Bogomil tore his eyes away from the U.N.C.L.E. agent, his voice unusually sharp. “Billy, what?”  
“Well he seems to have enough to follow up on….”  
Bogomil cut in with barely contained anger, “You want to tell that to the Chief?”  
Rosewood sighed, “No sir.”  
“Then I suggest you get moving.”  
“Come on, Illya.” Rosewood motioned to the door.  
Kuryakin locked eyes with Bogomil and nodded. He rose and went out the door followed by Rosewood. The room was quiet with unreleased frustration.

********

Victor Maitland and Zack Beridze entered the Gallery like men on a mission. Ally saw them when they entered and quickly got off the phone to a customer.  
Maitland walked up to Ally’s desk and smiled at his employee. “Good morning, Ally.” She had never noticed before how cold he could sound.  
“Viktor, hi.” She rose nervously but Maitland waved her back to her chair.  
“I hope I’m not interrupting you?”  
“Of course not, don’t be silly.”  
“Ally, there’s a gentleman in town from New York City who said that he’s a friend of Mikhail Petrovsky. He came by the office yesterday and asked me all sorts of, well, rather odd questions.”  
Maitland was pacing the small space in front of her desk. He reminded Ally of a caged animal. “I believe his name is Kuryakin. Since you were such a good friend of Mikhail’s, I was wondering if you were perhaps familiar with this…. fellow?”  
“Illya? Sure. Illya Kuryakin. Well we, umm, we grew up together.”  
“Really. Do you know much about his background?”  
“When I knew Illya, we were growing up in the Soviet State schools. Kids really. Then he went into the military. We lost touch and I came to America.”  
“And tell me, what was your friend like?  
“Well, Illya was smart, careful I guess you would say. He was incredibly stubborn and determined. He went farther than any of us in school.” Ally suddenly felt very protective of Illya. “Viktor, please, I’m sure he’s harmless.”  
Maitland picked of a vase from Ally’s desk and slowly rubbed his fingers over it. “My dear, have you seen him lately?”  
“He, ah, he came in yesterday.”  
“What is that? He came by here, did he? And….” Maitland was terribly calm, his cold eyes held hers. Ally somehow felt very frightened.  
“He told me that Misha had been killed.”  
“Yes, yes I know that. And then….”  
“That’s it. He left and then I, ah, I haven’t seen him since.”  
He carefully set the vase down. “Hmmm. Ally, darling, you wouldn’t by any chance know where this fellow is staying would you? I have some information that just might be helpful for him.”  
Ally’s eyes moved from Viktor to Zack in fear. “No, I have no idea.”  
Maitland sighed and walked over behind Ally and placed his hands on her shoulders, “Yes. Yes, I see. Well, I do hope I haven’t disturbed you too much.”  
“No. Not at all.”  
Maitland leaned over and gave Ally a kiss on the cheek, “Take care, darling.” Goose bumps went up and down her spine.  
The two men then left the building.

********


	9. Chapter 9

#### ACT 9: _“Rosewood, what the hell is going on?”_

“Billy, I want to take another look at Maitland’s warehouse before I leave.”  
Illya and Billy were walking to the detective’s car outside the station when Illya neatly grabbed the keys out of his hand and quickly made for the driver’s side.  
In his haste not to be left behind, Billy jumped for the passenger door. “Illya! You’re going to get me into real trouble.”  
The agent gunned the engine and was moving quickly down the street before he explained. “I read the Gallery’s manifest. They are expecting another shipment in today.”  
Billy turned a pleading look, “Bogomil said…”  
“I know what Bogomil said,” Illya interrupted. “But I must take a look. It’s important.”  
“Look, Illya. I wish we could but we can’t,” he begged as the car took a turn at a reckless speed.  
“Then we don’t. I will let you off and go by myself.”  
Billy, holding on for dear life, turned to stare out the window. He groaned, “Bogomil will kill me.”  
The Russian chuckled at the young detective, “As my partner is fond of pointing out; ‘you only live once’.”  
Illya was driving wildly, as if lost. Out of fear, Billy asked, “Gosh, where are we going?”  
“I need to go to the Maitland Gallery near my hotel first.” There was a slight pause when Illya timidly added, “Um … just tell me how to get there.”  
Billy sighed. _“Oh Crap_. Turn right at the corner.”  
Shocked at hearing the now familiar curse from Billy, Illya silently made the turn.

“My friend, Ally, will let us into Maitland’s warehouse. We can be there when the shipment comes in and arrest them.”  
“Turn left at the next corner. How can you be so sure it will be drugs or something illegal?”  
Illya shrugged, “Call it instinct. That is a technique by which many crimes outside of Beverly Hills are solved.”  
Billy did not miss the smirk on the agent’s face.  
“Why didn’t you tell Bogomil about this shipment?”  
“Hmm. I am beginning to think everyone in this town is a robot. Your Lieutenant does everything by the book. He has to, I understand. But this, this is personal to me. This is the real world, a violent world – and there is no rule book in Maitland’s world.”  
Billy shook his head, depressed. “All they asked me to do was drive you out of town. Now I’m going to screw that up too.”  
“Billy, I could kiss you.”  
At seeing Billy stare, Illya added with a chuckle, “Oh please … the Russian way.”

Side by side the Detective and the Agent walked into the Art Gallery – on the outside they both had the same look of youth and innocence. Only, one of them carried himself with a subtle assurance and a dangerous confidence. Ally came up to greet them.  
“Illya!” Ally’s hand went out to her friend.  
Illya took her hand and noticed her trembling. “Ally, this is my friend Billy Rosewood. Billy this is Ally Summers, the manager of the Gallery.”  
“Hi.”  
“Billy is a Beverly Hills Police Detective.” Ally saw quickly that Illya was cautioning her about what she said in front of this new man.  
“How do you do,” Rosewood said courteously.  
Seeing the Gallery assistant over at the side bar, Illya needed to distract Billy while he found out what was troubling Ally. “And this is Serrje. Serrje, this is my friend Billy. Do you think you could give him an espresso?”  
Serrje looked up and gave the Russian a sweet smile, “Does he want it with a lime twist?”  
Billy answered, “Ah, yes sure. If it’s no bother.”  
“No, don’t be silly,” Serrje giggled as he turned Rosewood to the bar. Illya and Ally walk away.

“Illya, Viktor Maitland was here asking questions about you today. I’m telling you he was acting really uptight.”  
Illya watched the front of the Gallery and saw Billy politely accept his espresso. Billy missed the appraising eye Serrje was giving him. “Ally, the reason I came down here was because I need to get back inside the warehouse.”  
Ally leaned back, her eyes drilling her old friend in thought. “How about I go with you.”  
Turning his attention back to Ally, Illya frowned, “No. That is not possible.”  
“It’s settled. I’m going with you,” she replied as she turned and grabbed her keys.  
Recognizing the look of stubbornness on his friend, Illya was quickly losing his temper with these amateurs. He switched to Russian. “Alevtina, confound it, you work in an Art Gallery! You have Serrje for an assistant. You are innocent to these ways.”  
She stood her ground and replied in their native language. “Look, Illya. If this has anything to do with Misha getting killed then I want to check it out for myself.”  
Rosewood came up to them happily sipping his espresso. Illya rubbed his temples. He had a throbbing headache as he wondered how his world had gotten so crazy. He was exhausted; he hadn’t slept much in the last few days. His backup was a cop who was more of an innocent than the Art Gallery manager, and Ally was out-maneuvering him into taking her into a very dangerous situation. Now he understood the word he’d heard … ‘uptight’.  
“Alevtina Makarova, I don’t have time to stand here and argue with you.”  
“You don’t have to. I won’t be a minute,” Ally ordered, completely ignoring him. “Just let me get my espresso from Serrje and we’ll argue on the way. Come to think of it, I’ll get one for you too. You look like you could use it.”

********

Billy drove them all to the warehouse, each of the passengers quietly sipping their coffees’ as they went. Illya was beginning to get quite a taste for them. Rosewood parked across the street where they had a good view of the building.  
“Billy, your job is to sit here and observe. You do not make a move until I come out and get you.”  
“I don’t see why I can’t go in.”  
“You can’t go in because you are a police officer in this town. If you go in there without proper cause they will claim this was an illegal search. You know this. Didn’t they teach you that in police school?”  
“You mean the Academy,” Billy politely corrected.  
Illya sighed, “Just sit here. If I find any evidence I will come out and get you.”  
Billy was worried. He knew Illya should not go in alone without backup. “But you can’t go by yourself….”  
“Don’t worry. I have done this before a few times.” 

Illya turned to Ally sitting in the back seat observing the conversation. “Is there any chance that you will give me that key and let me go in by myself?”  
“No chance.”  
_“Bozhe moi”_ Illya cursed under his breath.  
“Ah ah ah. You forget I know Russian, Illya Nickovitch. Watch your language.”  
Illya looked at her with a frown, “I forget nothing. Come then.”  
Billy settled down to bite all his fingernails down to the nubs.

********

Illya and Ally crossed the street and Ally used her keys to open the warehouse side door. Inside, Illya moved quickly amongst the many crates, searching for specific items. Ally followed closely behind.

“It looks like they have been here already.” Illya said as they came upon several open crates on a table.  
“What exactly are you looking for?”  
“This.” Illya tapped a label on one of the crates. “This is a crate from overseas that hasn’t passed through Customs yet. You see – no Certification stamp.”  
Illya grabbed a crowbar and pried open the lid of the crate. Ally saw the crates on the table were all marked for ‘Maitland Gallery.’ With the lid off, they saw a block of sealer wax. Illya quickly lifted this out, only to reveal a layer of rich brown dirt.  
“Coffee!” Ally smiled, knowing they were close.  
“Hmmm. Coffee on top. But….” Illya dug his hand below the brown grains and revealed clear plastic sacks below. He pulled up one of the sacks filled with white powder. “But this is not sugar. Go get Rosewood.”

“Welcome to the party.” Suddenly a man appeared with a gun leveled at Illya and Ally. Another man moved quickly up behind them, his gun poked Illya in the back.  
Ally turned as more men came up to them, guns drawn.

Outside Billy watched as a polished black limousine pulled up in front of the warehouse and several men got out – one of them was Viktor Maitland. They all went inside the warehouse.

As Maitland walked in, he saw Kuryakin standing with his arms held behind him and Miss Summers standing next to him.  
“Well, it seems we have guests.” He walked over to the open crate with the sacks of drugs exposed. He sighed. When he spoke, his voice was tight with tension. “How nice. I do so like surprises.”

Maitland stepped in front of the woman. “Alevtina,” Maitland spoke in Russian very quietly. “I just can’t tell you how disappointed I am to find you here.”  
“Viktor, listen….”  
“Shut UP!” yelled Maitland in her face. He was quite close to her now. Breathing deep to control himself, he continued in a soft whisper. “I don’t want to hear it.”  
Ally’s eyes were big from fear and she quieted herself as she chewed her lower lip.

Maitland moved in front of Kuryakin. Two of his men had hold of Kuryakin’s arms and a third had his gun pointed next to his head. Kuryakin’s face was impassive; the cold blue eyes were half-closed and blank. Maitland simply shook his head and turned away. 

Maitland spoke calmly in English to one of his men, “Take her to the car and wait for me. All right?”  
The man stepped forward as Ally looked over to Illya, “What are you going to do with Illya?”  
“I think you should be more worried about what we are going to do with you my dear,” Maitland said as two men quickly pushed Ally back towards the door, her wrists now tied together.  
“Do not worry, Alevtina. Plenty of cocaine and coffee. I expect we will be having a party here soon.” Illya tried to remind Ally that they had a friend nearby. They whisked her outside and away.  
The man behind Kuryakin pressed the barrel of the gun deep into his neck and, grabbing a handful of hair, held his head in place. Kuryakin tried to bait Maitland. He needed time for Billy to see what was going on and to act.  
“Well, well. You can leave the old country behind but you can’t take the smuggler out of the blood, can you Viktor. Once a small-time crook, always a small-time crook.”  
Maitland turned back to the blond and smiled slowly.

Outside, Rosewood saw two men pushing Ally into the limo and get in beside her. He bit into another nail with anxiety.

“If something happens to her….” Kuryakin growled in Russian.  
“Hmmm? I’m all ears,” Maitland purred.  
Kuryakin spoke softly, deadly, “I will kill you myself.”  
Maitland grinned, “Really. That would be a neat trick.” Maitland turned and looked at Zack before walking away.

Approaching, Zack drawled, “Well cousin …”  
“You cannot still be angry with me?” Kuryakin quipped but was held fast by the three men.  
“Aw, no.” Zack rubbed his still swollen and bruised jaw. “No. But I should have taken care of you in New York.”  
Kuryakin froze as the implication of what Zack said hit him.  
“That’s when I popped your little buddy.” So. Zack had been at Illya’s apartment and was the one who killed Misha.  
Kuryakin’s whole demeanor turned to ice. He spit into Zack’s face. Zack, taken aback, retaliated with a swift slam into the prisoner’s mid-section, a smash into his kidney, and another slam across his jaw. Zack stepped away only after cutting the man’s face with his ring.  
As Kuryakin bent over coughing and trying to get his breath, Maitland smiled, “Good bye Mr. Kuryakin. ‘Have a nice day’ as they say here in California.”  
Blood sliding down his face, Kuryakin gasped, “I will try.”  
Maitland and Zack left together.

Billy had worked himself up to a strong case of worry when he saw Maitland and some of his henchmen exit the warehouse. There was no sign of Illya. He gave the steering wheel a death grip as he knew he was told to stay put. He was a Police Officer, for heaven’s sake. He couldn’t just barge onto private property. He glanced up as the limo pulled out and drove off.  
Breathing heavy in frustration, Billy opened the car door – only to slam it closed again. “Awww, man!” He sat for a few more seconds then whispered _“oh crap”_ as he knew he was going to get into a lot of trouble for this. Billy left the car and crossed the street.

Inside, one of Maitland’s men rubbed the back of Kuryakin’s neck, “How is that little bump on the head doing? Huh? I gave you that in New York.” He pressed the still tender spot. “Healed up nice I hope.” Seeing no response, he began systematically beating into the agent with relish. 

Billy quietly opened the side door and entered the warehouse. He soon heard coughing, as if someone was trying to get their breath. He pulled out his weapon and nervously licked his lips. Carefully looking around a corner, he saw Illya being held by two men and another man smashing his fists into his friend. He jumped out in plain view and yelled, “Freeze, Beverly Hills Police!”  
The man who had been hitting Illya reacted first by whipping out his gun at Billy. Two shots hit the wall beside Billy’s head before the young detective returned fire and hit the thug squarely in the chest.  
Kuryakin threw his head back and smashed one of the other thugs in the face. He then viciously kicked the other in the groin. Holding his side, Illya ran unsteady to the cop. “Thank you, Billy!” he said fervently. The detective took his arm in support and led them out of the building. “Now quickly. Take me to Maitland’s residence.”

Billy drove as he spoke into the Police radio, “Tell Taggart to check out the warehouse at that address and act on whatever he finds. I’ll explain it to him later.”  
“Err, Detective Rosewood. Sgt. Taggart is here now and wishes to talk to you.”  
_“Bozhe moi!”_ muttered Rosewood.  
Slouching in the passenger seat Kuryakin was again surprised at the profanity coming from the usually polite young man. Russian profanity at that.  
“Rosewood! What the hell is going on?” Taggart’s voice came back over the radio. He never called him by his last name.  
“I’m sorry Sarge, I can’t talk now.”  
“What do you mean ‘you can’t talk now’?!”  
Billy winced. “We’re in pursuit. Just check out the warehouse and please don’t say anything to Bogomil.”  
In the control room, Taggart was leaning over the radio equipment in agitation. “Billy?! Billy! Who’s ‘we’?!”  
The officer next to him reported, “Sorry sir. He’s not transmitting anymore.”  
_“Bozhe moi!”_ swore Taggart leaving the dispatcher puzzled.

McCabe and Foster walked up to the distracted Taggart. “What’s the matter?”  
“It’s Billy. He’s doing something dumb again. But I don’t know what.” Taggart turned to the radio operator, “Was he calling from the hotel?”  
“No sir. Right now his car is heading north on Palm Canyon Road.”  
McCabe turned to Taggart, “We were there this morning.”  
“What?”  
“Yeah, Kuryakin was up there looking over Maitland’s house.”  
Taggart needed to hear no more. He turned back to the operator, “Do you have the address of that warehouse?”  
“Yes sir…” as he passed along a piece of paper.  
Taggart turned back to McCabe and Foster. “Here. You two check that place out. Then call me and let me know what the hell is going on over there.” Taggart then added quickly, “And don’t talk to anybody but me.” It was telling how easily the men deferred to Taggart’s authority.

********


	10. Chapter 10

#### ACT 10: Bogomil whispered, _“Bozhe moi.”_

Kuryakin and Rosewood were outside Maitland’s estate. The agent retrieved some small tools from his back pocket and, mesmerized, the detective watched him go to work on the gate lock.  
Taggart drove up and jumped out of his car. “Hold it right there Kuryakin. You’re under arrest.”  
“Hello Sargent,” said Kuryakin, never stopping his work on the lock.

In frustration, Taggart turned on Rosewood, “Billy what the hell are you doing here?”  
Kuryakin spoke over his shoulder, “I stole Detective Rosewood’s gun and forced him to bring me here.”  
Rosewood was not even phased by Kuryakin’s lie. “No, he didn’t Sarge. Look, everything he said about Maitland is true. Now Maitland has kidnapped a woman and he’s got her in this house. I saw it with my own eyes.”  
“Well let’s go in there and get her,” Taggart huffed.  
“What do you think I am trying to do here!” The agent then cursed in Russian – the profanity a sign of his worry for his friend. The gate was a highly sophisticated lock and was proving troublesome. It really needed one of U.N.C.L.E.’s explosives.

Agitated, Taggart pushed Illya aside, “You’re not doing anything! We’ll handle this. We’ll have a search warrant here in twenty minutes.”  
Rosewood twisted in frustration knowing the rules he lived by would not work here. Quickly pushing Taggart aside, Illya returned back to the lock. He focused to speak again in English, “She will be dead in twenty minutes.”  
“Stop working on that lock! You’re under arrest.” Taggart pushed the agent aside again, the two facing off.  
“Look Sargent, I will open this door and I am going inside. You want to stop me? You will have to shoot me.” The blue eyes locked onto Taggart.  
“Me too,” Rosewood added stepping beside the agent.  
“Billy?”

“Really Sarge. You can do what you want but I’m going in with Illya.” Kuryakin returned to his frantic manipulations of the lock.  
“Crap, Billy. This is really serious trouble. If you’re lucky you’ll just get fired.”  
The two officers heard the door click open and Taggart threatened, “This is my last warning Kuryakin.”  
The agent looked back at Rosewood and then Taggart. And then he went through. Taggart marveled that there had never even been a hesitation in the agent’s mind.  
Rosewood turned to follow and Taggart called to him, “Billy….”  
“I’m sorry Sarge. I’ve got to.” The two men stared at each other. They had partnered for two years and up until now, Billy had never taken a stand, let alone one against his partner.  
_“Bozhe moi!_ Wait a minute.” Taggart turned back to his car and popped the trunk. The older cop took out the police issue rifle and returned to the gate. The detectives went through together.

********

An alarm went off in the Estate’s Security office. “What is that?” one of the guards asked.  
“It looks like the east Gate. Punch it up.” The guard went to the control panel and the monitor cameras moved. They saw two men in suits moving quickly inside the property along the outer wall.  
“Who the hell is that? Better get Maitland up here.” 

Kuryakin moved rapidly up towards the house. He saw the alarm system but he hadn’t brought his U.N.C.L.E. issue tools along with him to take care of them. He would have to handle what he could. He saw the cameras swivel behind him and he heard, more than saw, the two Police Officers’ come running up behind him like a thundering herd. Crouching down, he shook his head. 

Back at Police Headquarters, Lt. Bogomil strolled into the Detective Offices. He wondered where his teams had gone.  
“Where is everybody, Owensby? Is Detective Rosewood back yet?”  
The lone detective looked up from his report, “No sir.”  
“Have you seen Sgt. Taggart?”  
“He took off about ten minutes ago.”  
The Lieutenant nodded his head, thinking this over.

The security cameras first picked up one, then another man moving with clumsy stealth through the back area of the Estate. Maitland, watching, had never seen the men before but he clearly saw that they were armed. Then one of the men tripped and before he could fall a blonde man came out of nowhere and steadied him.  
Shocked, Maitland quickly picked up a phone and said, “Zack, Kuryakin is on the grounds! How the hell should I know how he could be here! Get some people out there immediately. Take care of this once and for all!”  
Maitland moved towards the door and ordered, “Don’t take your eyes off that screen.”  
The agent and two detectives split up. Kuryakin took the back stairs while the Detectives went around to the side landscaped area. The retaining wall was at least 10 feet tall there and Taggart and Rosewood were stumped as to how to go further. Meanwhile the agent made it to the upper patio without any trouble.

Bogomil was becoming increasingly uneasy. He went into dispatch and approached the Officer manning the radio equipment. “I want you to contact Taggart and Rosewood. Now.”

Taggart had a plan to tackle the wall. He leaned his rifle against the retaining wall and motioned to Rosewood to come close. He signaled and Rosewood clasped his hands to give Taggart a leg up over the wall. Unfortunately, Taggart had put on a few pounds and Rosewood’s legs were unsteady with the extra weight. They both twisted away from the wall, stumbling deep into the rose bushes – eventually falling in a heap.

The police radio operator reported to Bogomil that he was unable to reach his men. “They must be away from their car, sir.”  
The Lieutenant was getting testy, “I can see that. Keep trying.”  
“Unit 11, come in please.”  
“What was their 20 when you last had contact?” asked Bogomil.  
The operator pushed a few buttons, “609 Palm Canyon Road.”  
“Who lives at that address?”  
“A Viktor Maitland, sir.”

Breathing hard, Taggart wanted to try again. Rosewood was very reluctant but the Sargent insisted. Rosewood clasped his hands again. On the count of three, Rosewood boosted up the older man. Taggart grabbed the wall ledge and began pulling himself up and over with Rosewood shoving from below.  
Hearing a loud noise, Kuryakin turned and was amazed at what he saw. Taggart, huffing and bellowing, was climbing up and rolling onto the patio in clear view. He watched as the man slowly rolled over the wall and landed flat on the ground, panting in exhaustion.  
A spray of machine gun fire ripped across the same grounds. Taggart hugged the grass and tried to shrink. Kuryakin quickly moved up to the next flight of stairs and took out the shooter. Taggart ran for cover. Down below Rosewood picked up the rifles and ran back to the route that Kuryakin had taken.  
Kuryakin grabbed Taggart and pulled him to cover just as another machine gun ripped across exactly where he had been standing.  
Both men, crouched in a corner, were held down by gun fire.  
Taggart complained, “What the crap am I doing here?”  
Kuryakin wasted no time and returned fire but his angle was wrong. “Hmm. You are unlucky. I know of this condition.”  
Over by the stairs, Rosewood stood up, aimed his rifle and yelled “Drop it!” The machine gun switched over to him. Rosewood let off one shot and took out the thug. 

The three men met up only to be fired upon again by another machine gun from another direction. The men ran towards the house and jumped over a short rail.  
“Ohhhh crap!” yelled Taggart as he sailed over. The three men paused to check their equipment and catch their breath.  
“These men seem to be a bit serious,” Kuryakin said as he checked his gun for rounds. Taggart scoffed at the agent’s understatement.  
“I hate machine guns” panted Billy.  
At that moment the force of a machine gun ripped out the windows behind the men and all the furniture beside them.  
“Cover me,” called Kuryakin. He was up and running as both Detectives rose and fired. The man with the machine gun tried to track the running man but the return fire kept him low. Kuryakin dove and rolled up to a kneeling position. His single shot took out the guard holding them down.  
Kuryakin wasted no more time. He passed behind Taggart and Rosewood and said, “You check out the front and I’ll check the back.” It was a testament to the time these three men had come to trust each other, that they all three quickly complied.

********

“Sir, we have a report of shots fired at that same location, 609 Palm Canyon Road.”  
Bogomil was just finishing attaching his holster. “Put it down as a code 998 – Officers Need Assistance. Undercover are on scene.”  
The Radio Operator looked up, surprised. “Sir?”  
“Just do it. I want all North end units to roll, South end units stay in their area.”  
All the Radio Operators began their calls. “Crap,” swore Bogomil under his breath. He waved to Detective Owensby, “You’re with me. Let’s go.”

Taggart and Rosewood were moving towards the front of the Estate when gunfire again broke out around them. They jumped for cover on either side of a walk-way wall. When the firing finally stopped, Rosewood stood up, badge in hand, and yelled, “Beverly Hills Police! You’re all under arrest….” The gun fire started again.  
Narrowly missing being shot, Rosewood dropped back down and looked over at Taggart.  
“Billy! You do that again and I’ll shoot you myself!” Taggart yelled.

********

Out on the street several police cars, sirens blaring, were making their way to the Estate.

Inside the house, Kuryakin quietly searched the downstairs. He entered what looked like a library. Zack, checking out the premises, happened along the same room and caught sight of the agent. He took aim with his rifle and shot. Kuryakin saw the movement a split second before and jumped through the doorway out of sight. Zack fired a second shot, splintering the door jam where the agent’s head had been moments before. Kuryakin quickly made his way up a flight of stairs and Zack followed, getting off two shots barely missing him.  
At the corner, Kuryakin fired back. Not knowing the layout of the house was a big disadvantage for the agent as he moved low into the next room. Zack suddenly showed himself in another doorway and fired, again barely missing the agent, glass shards of a cabinet falling everywhere. Only Kuryakin’s experience and quick reflexes kept him alive.

Outside Taggart and Rosewood were still pinned down. More thugs were approaching, as the younger man reloaded his rifle. “Do you know what I keep thinking about?” asked Rosewood.  
Taggart was too busy watching for more gun fire coming from an unexpected direction. Rosewood continued, a maniacal grin on his face, “You know the ending of Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid.” Taggart stared at him with a frozen, horrified look.  
“Redford and Newman are almost out of ammunition. The whole Bolivian Army is out in front of this little hut.” Rosewood actually giggled.  
“Billy? I’m going to make you pay for this.”

Zack came down to the Dining Room. He took small steps past the first doorway moving to the next doorway, looking behind and around him. At the next doorway, he slowly turned into the room and froze as he saw Kuryakin waiting for him, gun steady in his hand. As Zack lifted his rifle, Kuryakin put two slugs into the thug. For Misha.  
Zack fell back, smashing into a window, crashing glass. 

Kuryakin rose and walked over to the body. He leaned down to check for a pulse, and getting none, stood back up. A gun shot and the flesh of his right arm flamed with fire – Kuryakin cried out. The force of the impact jerked his body back onto the kitchen floor. Maitland had put a bullet in him. Somehow Illya twisted with his left hand and recaptured his dropped gun. Because he was trained to do so, his left hand popped the empty clip out of his gun and reloaded another. His right arm hung close to his body, screaming pain with blood dripping down his shirt, useless.  
Maitland, gun in hand, carefully came around the corner expecting to see a dead man. What he saw was blood smeared over the kitchen floor and up the wall beside the other doorway. An empty gun clip on the floor.  
For the first time Maitland hesitated. Who was this man that refused to stay dead? He had run a successful business right under the noses of several governments for years. And now, one man, a Russian emigrant, was becoming a real threat. Maitland found he was unable to put him down, let alone control him. Looking down at the multiple blood stains, Maitland slowly backed away.

Police cars were speeding through the outside gates of the Estate and coming up the driveway. The two Security Guards in the Monitor Room panicked when they saw the size of the force. “I’m not going to hang around here.”  
“Fuck no,” the other one answered and they both ran out.

Several of the police cars were blocking the exit and, with the officers crouched behind them, pulled their guns on the escaping men. The main driveway was clogged with multiple police vehicles, Bogomil’s among them. Looking out over the sea of police, Bogomil whispered, _“Bozhe moi.”_

Kuryakin forced himself to ignore the pain. Quietly he made his way through the house with no sign of Maitland nor Ally. He turned a corner into a hallway when suddenly behind him, Ally screamed, “Illya!”  
Kuryakin turned and crouched as Maitland showed himself at the far end of the hall, holding Ally in a close grip, his gun pointed at her head.  
The two men froze. 

“Be careful, old boy. You just might hit me.” Maitland saw Kuryakin’s gun, aimed directly at him, was rock steady. Time stood still as no one moved.  
“Freeze, Police!” Bogomil jumped out from behind Kuryakin and also aimed his gun at Maitland.  
Ally jammed her elbow into Maitland’s side, making him lose his grip on her. As he did, she dropped to the floor. Maitland got off one shot hitting the wall beside Kuryakin’s head.  
In response both Bogomil and Kuryakin fired several shots into Maitland, killing him. His dead body slipped to the floor.

Outside several police officers came up behind Taggart and Rosewood with rifles drawn. Emboldened, Rosewood stood up, badge out in plain view again and yelled, “Beverly Hills Police. You’re all under arrest. Lay down your weapons in front of you and take two steps back with your hands up.” To Rosewood’s glee, the thugs stood, raised their hands, and obeyed his command.  
Taggart, still prone on the ground, exhausted said, “Very good Billy.”  
“This is great!” Rosewood giggled.

********

Police were everywhere, taking reports, rounding up the last of the thugs. Taggart took a report and made his way to Lt. Bogomil who was overseeing the cleanup. Ally, Billy, and Illya were sitting on the curb on the front lawn, nursing their own private thoughts. Ally had an ice-pack to her jaw, Kuryakin was holding his right arm close to his body. Billy trying his best to field bandage Illya’s arm – at the constant protest from Illya. 

The Chief of Police busted up the quiet peace of the orderly cleanup by pushing aside Bogomil. “In all that’s holy, what’s going on here?”  
Kuryakin leaned back and said with feeling under his breath, “Oh Crap.” Rosewood smirked at the words but didn’t look up from double wrapping the injured arm.  
Hearing Kuryakin, the fat man yelled “What’s this man doing here?”  
“Bleeding sir,” Kuryakin growled.

The Chief did not appreciate the comment as he barked, “Rosewood!” Billy jumped up to attention. “How come he isn’t wearing handcuffs?” The Chief pointed to Kuryakin.  
“Ahh, well, he isn’t actually in custody sir.” Billy stammered. Bogomil and Taggart came up behind him. Kuryakin, dizzy and depressed, stayed seated.  
“Then place him in custody. Or would you like me to do it for you.”

Bogomil broke in, “Wouldn’t you like to hear my report first, sir?”  
Slowly the Chief turned around to face his Lieutenant. His voice dripped sarcasm. “You have a report that explains all this?”  
“Yes sir.”  
“Well I would be very glad to hear it.” Behind the Chief’s back Rosewood looked worried over at Taggart.

“Well sir, Miss Ally Summers, the manager of Mr. Maitland’s Art Gallery accidentally discovered large quantities of a substance she suspected was cocaine in the Art Galley’s warehouse.”  
Ally gave Illya a curious look.  
“She immediately communicated her discovery to Agent Illya Kuryakin of U.N.C.L.E.” Bogomil took a deep breath. “Agent Kuryakin was at the time cooperating in a joint Beverly Hills/ U.N.C.L.E. investigation of international narcotics trafficking.”  
The Chief gave a look at Kuryakin who smiled innocently.  
Bogomil continued, “Agent Kuryakin and Detective Rosewood, responding to Miss Summers’ report, proceeded to the Gallery warehouse, where Rosewood did in fact discover approximately 80 kilos of cocaine.” Rosewood nodded his head proudly.  
“Rosewood immediately called for backup and I dispatched our officers to this location. Sgt. Taggart here was the first to arrive at the scene, discovering that Miss Summers was being held and her life threatened. Having probable cause to believe a felony was in progress, Sgt. Taggart joined Rosewood, with Agent Kuryakin present only as an observer, and proceeded to enter the grounds.” The Chief made no comment while this report was being presented.  
“Receiving a report of shots fired, I immediately dispatched back up to this location. In the course of defending ourselves, we shot several suspects, including Mr. Maitland.”

The Chief looked at Bogomil, and Bogomil returned the look, slightly out of breath.  
“You expect me to believe that report?”  
“That’s the report I’m filing sir.”  
The Chief shook his head, unconvinced.  
Slowly he turned, looking at each participant with a hard stare, stopping on the by-the-book Taggart. “Sgt. Taggart. Why don’t you tell me what happened?”

Taggart exchanged a look with Bogomil.  
Kuryakin and Rosewood, knowing Taggart always felt duty-bound to tell the truth, watched the man nervously. Taggart shook himself and said, “It happened just like the Lieutenant said Chief.”  
Kuryakin, Ally, and Rosewood grinned, not letting the Chief see of course.

“Well I suppose congratulations are in order.” The two commanders shook hands, one knowing he hadn’t heard the truth but unable to do anything about it.  
“Thank you, sir.”  
“That report had better be on my desk in the morning. Oh, and it had better be exactly as you have just reported it.”  
“Yes sir. First thing.”  
The Chief then left his people to their job.

When alone, Kuryakin nodded to the Lieutenant, “Excellent report Lieutenant. I couldn’t have done better myself.”  
Bogomil returned the nod, “Facts are a series of events to be reported in a variable pattern to support a specific outcome. Of course, only to be used with discretion.”  
“Of course, sir.” Kuryakin’s face didn’t change but there was no denying the twinkle in the blue eyes.  
Bogomil then gave an appraising eye of the man before him. “Agent Kuryakin, you did a good job here today. Good police work and you made a very brave stand up there at the house to save that young lady’s life.”  
“Does that mean you would offer me a position if I needed one, Lieutenant?”  
“Not on your life,” Bogomil laughed and shook his head. “But I might be inclined to call U.N.C.L.E. New York and pass along my compliments. Now Agent Kuryakin, why don’t you go to the hospital and get your shoulder looked at.”  
Rosewood called, “Come on, Illya. I’ll give you and Miss Summers’ a ride.”  
Kuryakin paused and paid his respect to Bogomil, “Thank you, sir.”  
The Lieutenant gave a small salute and began to walk down the hill back to his people.

********


	11. Chapter 11

#### ACT 11: _“Home James.”_

“I am checking out of Suite 1035” the client was testy. The blonde U.N.C.L.E. agent was again dressed in his customary black, with only the white sling around his right arm to break up the ensemble. Between the hospital poking and prodding and spending most of his time filling out forms, he’d hardly had any time to enjoy the accommodations of the hotel and his shoulder hurt abysmally.  
“One moment, sir.” The manager turned away to check the register.  
Illya heard a cough behind him. Taggart and Rosewood came up. “Gentlemen. Don’t tell me – you came down here to see me off?”  
Billy tried to take the sting out of his words, “Bogomil ordered us to make sure you got safely out of town.”  
Illya scowled. “No need. My employer has already arrived to insure my transportation.”

A well-dressed playboy type waltzed up beside Kuryakin and put his arm possessively on his partner’s good shoulder. “Sgt. Taggart, Detective Rosewood. Let me introduce my partner, Napoleon Solo.”  
Immediately Taggart didn’t like the slippery appearance of Solo. However, Rosewood was amazed at the charisma that vibrated off of the suave new agent.  
“Gentlemen, my compliments. The U.N.C.L.E. is very pleased at the speedy and successful conclusion to this affair. The Beverly Hills Police Force seems to have conducted the entire matter efficiently and any U.N.C.L.E. contribution seems to have been in a completely advisory capacity.”  
Taggart cautiously asked, “And just how did you hear about the conclusion? The details as to how the Maitland investigation turned out?”  
Solo gave his best official smile, “Why Illya sent me a copy of the report submitted by Lieutenant Bogomil.”  
Taggart turned a knowing look to Kuryakin. Rosewood seemed to have picked up a coughing fit. Kuryakin was the picture of innocence.  
“You’re gonna miss us, admit it.” Taggart teased.  
Illya turned, “You look a little misty eyed yourself, Sargent.”  
“Bull shit. You always give me bull shit” the older man grinned. Solo, surprised at the Sargent’s familiarity, thought maybe he had fallen down a rabbit hole somewhere between the airport and the hotel.  
“Excuse me.” Taggart caught the hotel manager’s eye, “The Beverly Hills Police department is picking up the bill.”  
“Really?” Kuryakin was touched.  
The Desk Clerk intervened, “I apologize sir, but there is no bill. Oh no, we would never bill our special guests. This gentleman happens to be one of our most valued customers. The Beverly Hills Palms and our Penthouse suite are always at your service, Mr. X. Anytime.”  
Solo, Taggart, and Rosewood were in shock and looked at the agent with new eyes.

Ally swept up to the men standing in the lobby. “Illya! Just a quick hop and skip to see you off.” She easily brought attention to her good looks and her California healthy tan. “I brought by one of Serrje’s special mixes to help on the flight home. He sends his love, by the way.”  
“Thank you Alevtina, that was very generous.” Solo poked him in the side, “Ah Miss Ally Summers, this is my partner from New York, Mr. Solo.”  
“Please call me Napoleon. Now why have I never heard of you before,” said Napoleon, leaning in, holding her hand for a kiss.  
“Oh wow! That’s so out-there baby!” laughed Ally. Napoleon, stood up, his eyebrows raised. He had never received that response before. Were the rumors about California true?  
Ally reached up on tip-toes and gave her old friend a hug and the Russian kiss on both cheeks and then, for good measure, a generous kiss on the mouth. She grinned a sassy grin, knowing he would get grief from his partner for it. “I have to beat feet now darling, but let’s keep in touch. Fab meeting you, Illya’s partner.  
“Oh, and Illya. Don’t forget to send me a photo of your kitchen table. I may have a buyer. Easily 10K.” Illya rolled his eyes as his partner did a double take. 

“Here, Napoleon. Hold my drink for me.”  
Napoleon looked down at the sudden appearance in his hand. Solo, a man of the world, connoisseur of many beverages and spirit concoctions all over the globe, sniffed and asked, “What, exactly, is this?”  
“Try it, it’s good. It is made with just a twist of lime.”  
Grinning as his partner took a careful sip of the cup, Illya asked the desk clerk, “Sir, do you sell those Hotel robes down here?”  
“Yes sir, of course we do.”  
“Well money is no object. I’ll take two please. Just put them on my tab.”  
“Of course, sir.” Napoleon almost choked on the sip he just took.

Illya picked up one of the robes and handed it to the young detective. “You saved my life, Detective Rosewood. I don’t think I can ever repay you but as a token of my appreciation I want you to have this fine Beverly Hills Palms robe. Wear it in good health, my friend.”  
Truly moved, Billy’s voice caught. “Gee thanks Illya.”

Taggart picked up Illya’s duffel bag, “Here let me take this. You should rest that arm.”  
Picking up the other robe, Illya followed Taggart out. “Taggart, this is for you.”  
Taggart looked embarrassed as he looked at the gift, “No, that’s all right. You keep it as a souvenir.”  
Illya shrugged, “I already have two of them in my bag.”  
Taggart grinned and took the gift.

Outside, Illya strolled up to his tiny yellow vehicle and stood by the passenger door of his rental. Napoleon was horrified by the implications that this was their transportation – a box on wheels. “Illya what the hell is this thing?”  
“It is my rental Napoleon. It is very hip. By the way, you’re driving,” Illya tossed the keys to his partner. “I’m still on vacation.”

Napoleon easily caught the keys one-handed, reluctant to give up the espresso.  
“Really Illya? A stick-shift?” Then eyeing the baggage going in under the front hood, Napoleon worried, “And where might the motor be?”  
“No sweat, Napoleon. It runs on money. Wake me when we get home.”

********

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wish you all a sweet Merry Christmas and thank you for reading.

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback and hot tips always appreciated.


End file.
